


A Nobler Ambition

by AMarguerite



Series: A Monstrous Regiment [2]
Category: Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen, Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Accidental Cuddling, F/M, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, HEA, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Sharing a Bed, Swash swash buckle buckle, UST, badass Elizabeth Bennet, everyone is a goddamn method actor, is it really a fake relationship au if they weren't all method acting, oh no one bed what do
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-08 07:52:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 71,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14100822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMarguerite/pseuds/AMarguerite
Summary: A shippy sequel to 'A Monstrous Regiment.'Colonel Fitzwilliam tries very hard to hide his crush on Captain Bennet, of His Majesty's Dragon Wollstonecraft, from everyone.... especially Captain Bennet. This proves impossible when he and Captain Bennet are stranded behind enemy lines in Spain, and they have to masquerade as a married couple in order to fool the French army, and return to the British army. Will they escape? What will they do when there’s only one bed in the inn?? Tune in for the predicable answer!





	1. In which Benwick is impractically, insufferably Romantic

**Author's Note:**

> Just a head's up that this is shippy nonsense featuring Elizabeth Bennet/Colonel Fitzwilliam. Darcy will not really be appearing in this fic. 
> 
> The title comes from Mary Wollstonecraft's 'A Vindication of the Rights of Women': "One cause of this barren blooming I attribute to a false system of education, gathered from the books written on this subject by men, who, considering females rather as women than human creatures, have been more anxious to make them alluring mistresses than rational wives; and the understanding of the sex has been so bubbled by this specious homage, that the civilized women of the present century, with a few exceptions, are only anxious to inspire love, when they ought to cherish a nobler ambition, and by their abilities and virtues exact respect."

To the surprise of absolutely no one, Captain Benwick declared he was in love with Miss Lydia Bennet and could not live without her.

“You’ve managed to this long,” said Captain Bennet, who was not pleased he had volunteered this information in the middle of a meeting to go over what supplies they needed for the trip back to Spain.

“Benwick,” said Captain Harville, gently, “you’ve known Miss Lydia for two weeks. That’s hardly enough time—”

“Time! You dare confine the mysteries of the heart to time?” Captain Benwick looked shocked and appalled.

Lieutenant-Colonel Gowing coughed into his hand and then said, “If I may... perhaps you might like to be engaged to Miss Lydia. I was engaged to Kate for years before we married and it did us no harm.”

Captain Benwick looked offended by the suggestion.

Captain Bennet shuffled her papers together. “Right, so, about the quantity of powder... it  seems to me disproportionate to the amount of shot—”

“What is shot and powder to me without the love of Miss Lydia?”

“The... things you need in order to not only do your job but to win the war with France?” Captain Bennet stared at him in bewilderment. Colonel Fitzwilliam could see her think, ‘Admiral Roland never gave me advice on how to deal with unhappy Romantics ignoring their duties.’

“She is more vital to me than shot or powder.”

“Well, she isn’t to the rest of us,” muttered Lieutenant Gupta.

“The shot and powder is more vital to literally everyone else in the division,” said Captain Crawford. “Benwick, for God’s sake—”

“I cannot go to Spain without her,” said Captain Benwick. “I will put in for a transfer if I have to; but I will not be parted from her.”

The other aviators all groaned, and sank back into their seats in various disgruntled attitudes. Though Captain Benwick had always kept rather quiet during division meetings, apparently he was just _like this_ when alone with aviators. Meaning impractically, insufferably Romantic. Captain Crawford, in particular, seemed to find this ridiculous, and leaned back in her chair, arms crossed and eyes on the ceiling. Captains Wentworth and Harville tried to be sympathetic, but were not achieving much success, and Captain Bennet was rubbing her forehead. All Colonel Fitzwilliam’s officers were deeply confused and uncomfortable. They were by now accustomed to the ramshackle ways of aviators, but this was something else entirely.

“Benwick,” Captain Bennet eventually said, exasperated. “You have half and hour. Go talk to my father. He’s still in Gracechurch Street.”

The meeting went on much more smoothly after that, and ended when Captain Benwick burst in with an ecstatic, “Miss Lydia has made me the happiest of men! We are to be married by special licence by the end of the week!”

“What?” demanded Captain Bennet, the papers dropping from her hands. “And my father gave his approval to this mad scheme of yours?”

“Yes indeed! And your mother— your dear mother, who asked me to call her Mama—”

“Of course she did,” muttered Captain Bennet.

“—let me know that this was just such a match as she could have hoped for Lydia. Your father said he could not withhold his approval in such a case.”

“He ought to have done,” muttered Captain Bennet.

“What?”

“Are you sure on that one?” Captain Bennet asked. “My father can be sarcastic—”

“No, captain. It was sincerely meant. Your sister and mother agreed with me, that we should be married by special licence.”

“Er, I’m not entirely sure you can get a special license,” said Lieutenant Lucas. “Those are only gotten by peers or the sons of peers, are they not?”

Almost as one, the whole table turned to look at Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Er, yes,” he said. “Look, Captain Benwick, four weeks of banns might seem a long time now, but—”

“In two weeks we shall be in Spain,” wailed Captain Benwick.

“Not if we don’t have the appropriate amounts of shot and powder,” muttered Captain Crawford.

Captain Benwick rushed to Colonel Fitzwilliam and seized him by the lapels. “I beg of you, stand not in the path of true love! Assist me, as you are an officer and a gentleman— as we are brothers in arms who have fought against overwhelming odds.”

“Ah, hm. An interesting point.” Colonel Fitzwilliam gently prized his coat out of Captain Benwick’s grasp and shot a speaking look at Captain Bennet.

She snapped, “For God’s sake, pull yourself together, and stop assaulting your superior officers.”

“I think you’d better help him,” said Lieutenant-Colonel Gowing, sympathetically. “I know what I was like when I couldn’t marry Kate when I wanted. Have a heart, Fitz.”

Captain Benwick gestured at Lieutenant-Colonel Gowing, as if to say, ‘you see?’

To the shock of everyone Captain Wentworth suddenly spoke up. “And why should they wait? If they both know their minds, why on earth should we persuade them otherwise? Such a love is a rare thing; one must seize it while one can.”

“It’s not that rare for Benwick,” muttered Captain Crawford.

Captain Wentworth ignored her. “Congratulations Benwick—” heartily shaking his hand “—I am sure you and your wife will be very happy. I shall do all I can to assist you.”

He was becomingly flushed at the end of it, and Colonel Fitzwilliam felt an unworthy stir of jealousy as Captain Bennet stared at Captain Wentworth in utter astonishment.

Captain Harville coughed and said, “Captain Bennet, really, it would not be difficult to add Mrs. Benwick into our plans, if we start thinking of it now. And my wife would very much welcome the company.”

“Oh my God,” said Captain Bennet, rubbing her forehead. “Fitz, come with me, we have orders to sign— Benwick, you can surely wait _two hours_ while we prepare for _war with the French_ before you can importune a superior officer for no doubt very expensive favors.”

“I will pay any price to marry Miss Lydia,” said Captain Benwick fervently.

“I shall assure my father’s lawyer of it when he is drawing up the marriage articles,” said Captain Bennet dryly.

When up in her chambers, Captain Bennet went first to the liquor cabinet rather than her desk.

Colonel Fitzwilliam tried not to laugh. 

“Oh God, what was my father thinking?” Captain Bennet griped, trying to open a bottle of wine. “Lydia is sixteen and horribly silly and— well she did do well against Wickham. But still! Married at sixteen! What were you doing at sixteen?”

“Trying to do handstands on my horse,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Here, give it me.”

Captain Bennet handed over the bottle of wine in a huff, and perched on the edge of her desk. “I was... well, I’m not a good example, I was fighting the Battle of the Nile. But I’m sure I was stupid and silly at sixteen and not capable of making good long term choices about my future.”

“I can’t imagine a time where you weren’t capable of making good long term choices,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, popping out the cork. “Do you have glasses?”

Captain Bennet looked about and grabbed them off a sideboard. “I don’t believe this. And yet— I somehow do. If any of my sisters was going to make a very foolish match, it would be Lydia.”

“Is it _very_ foolish?”

“Honestly, I’m so turned about I hardly know.” She accepted her glass with a wry smile. “Benwick is a very good officer, and he is not without fortune— and he is in a good way to earning more. But he has no dragon that his children may inherit. The ferals just sort of... tolerate him because he feeds them. And he has known my sister for two weeks. And she is sixteen. And literally two weeks ago, she tried to elope with someone else. Lydia is....” She looked down into her glass and then tossed it back with a grimace. Colonel Fitzwilliam refilled it. “Thanks, Fitz. Lydia’s eager to be married and it doesn’t much matter who. I don’t want Benwick to be hurt when he realizes that. Nor do I want Lydia to be unhappy because in her rush to marry, she accepted the first person who asked her, rather than the person who was right for her, as a partner.”

“Why not talk to your family, then?” asked Colonel Fitzwilliam. “If you are satisfied, then I can be of assistance. If not, I’ll stand about checking my pocket watch and muttering about Whitehall and the Admiralty.”

This was agreed upon, and they went at once to Gracechurch Street.

“It is not the stupidest choice she could make,” said Mr. Bennet, upon their arrival.

“No, she already made that,” said Captain Bennet, rubbing her forehead.

Mrs. Bennet came rushing out into the corridor and said, “Lizzy have you heard our Lydia is to be married! And to an officer!” Then, embracing Captain Bennet tightly, she hissed in her ear, “This is Lydia’s only chance at marriage! Do not be ungenerous with her portion!”

“It’s hardly her only chance—”

But then Mrs. Bennet spotted Colonel Fitzwilliam and propelled him through the house to sit with Miss Jane Bennet, who was already at work on what appeared to be a bridal veil. Captain Bennet remained with her parents. Colonel Fitzwilliam blinked. “Miss Bennet.”

Miss Bennet quietly rose and curtsied. “Colonel Fitzwilliam. I am sorry you were received so...brusquely just now.”

“It’s alright,” he said, smiling. “I was swept up into this rather on accident. Captain Benwick appears to have promised a special license without realizing how difficult they are to get.”

“Yes, I did mark that,” she said, dimpling. “I thought you might be asked to procure one.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam gestured to her work. “I suppose you are in favor of the match?”

Miss Bennet considered the spread of lace falling prettily over her lap. “I should not like any of my sisters to marry without affection, and I do not think that is the case. It is a very... recent affection, it is true, but Lydia does believe herself in love, and Captain Benwick seems to believe the same.”

“Do you think they are?”

Miss Bennet threaded a needle with a length of white silk thread, frowning in concentration. After a moment, she said, “I think that they could very well be happy together.” She looked down at her lap. “And I have been wrong, in the past in... in how long it takes for an affection to grow into something that can sustain a marriage. Lydia knows more than most the cost and difficulty of an aviator’s life, and is prepared to take it on. And I have been their chaperone. I have seen nothing in Captain Benwick’s character or behavior to give me any alarm. I think it is too soon for them to marry, but, circumstances being what they are....”

Then Colonel Fitzwilliam realized: Miss Lydia had run off from the home of her friends, had attempted to elope. “I thought we acted swiftly enough that....”

“Opinions are divided,” said Miss Bennet, softly. “But, I....” She looked up at him and made a visible effort to change the subject. “I never thanked you, sir, for your kindness to our family. There was no need to put yourself through such trouble.”

“Of course there was,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “I’m not sure what your sister told you, but Captain Wickham tried to steal an entire clutch of dragon eggs. His kidnapping Miss Lydia was part of the plot.” He tried to tell the rest of the tale as amusingly as he could, and then added, “And, you know, I owe Captain Bennet my life so many times over, I really ought to stop keeping track of it. I did very little to repay her in that respect, by helping to locate her sister.”

Miss Bennet looked at him curiously. “I’m not sure she would agree with such an assessment, Colonel.”

Though he had been very carefully and quietly folding up and putting away his feelings for Captain Bennet, as one might with a favorite outfit one dared not wear in an inhospitable climate, they all came tumbling out. “Re—really? What has she said?”

He fancied he had managed to come across as nonchalant, but at that point, Captain Bennet came into the room, looking vexed, with Miss Lydia saying very loudly from the hall, “— just jealous and I shall be married, no matter what you say!”

The door swung shut behind her. Captain Bennet let out an annoyed puff of air. “Well! Everyone in this family is apparently _perfectly fine_ with letting a sixteen-year-old girl making a choice that will change the course of her entire life with only a two week acquaintance with her new mode of life!”

“Our parents were fine with you making such a choice at seven,” Miss Bennet said gently.

Captain Bennet flushed and said, “That’s different. Aunt Bess was there to keep an eye on me.”

“And aren’t you going to be there to keep an eye on Lydia?”

“Yes, but....” She deflated under her sister’s calm gaze. “Oh alright! Yes, fine.” After a moment, she mused, “I do need a niece for Wollstonecraft. There. I can make sure Lydia’s future is secure. Her and her child, provided it is a girl. Or perhaps the ferals will take to a boy. Fitz...?”

“I can get Benwick a special licence,” he said.

“Thank you. I’ll pay you back.”

Captain James Benwick and Miss Lydia Bennet were married three days later. The wedding breakfast was held in the mess, and spilled out onto the grounds, as all the feral dragons wished to make merry and wish Captain Benwick luck. The wedding breakfast was much more lively than any he had attended before, and full of inadvertent property damage. Colonel Fitzwilliam escaped the melee of the cake distribution with two flutes of champagne. He had seen Captain Bennet slip out earlier.

He found her some distance away on hay bale, elbow balanced on her knee, and chin balanced in her palm.

“Penny for your thoughts,” he said, unable to resist sitting next to her. “Or, how about a flute of champagne? I haven’t got a penny.”

She cracked a smile. “I don’t mind the barter system.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam handing her a glass, and allowed himself a moment’s hopeless admiration and adoration. She looked so lovely in the bright afternoon sunlight, in her favorite ruffled yellow gown and fawn spenser, her hair up in curls. His admiring look ended as soon as she lowered her glass. He turned away and watched the feral dragons enacting some sort of Drury Lane melodrama, to add to the festivities.

“Lydia and I obviously fought about her marrying Benwick,” said Captain Bennet. “She... oh, I know she said some of the things she did just to hurt me, because she was afraid and defensive since I have power over Benwick, and over her dowry, but they still did _hurt_ , and I couldn’t be as happy for her today as all my family required me to be. I put up a good front, but it all slipped off now and so, I... here I am with the dragons again.”

“Where’s Wollstonecraft?”

Captain Bennet jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “Eating, like all the others. My father and I gave the dragons all a wedding breakfast of cows.”

After a moment, Colonel Fitzwilliam said, “Would it help to talk about it?”

“I don’t know,” said Captain Bennet, looking into her glass. “I know I oughtn’t to take what Lydia said seriously, but... really, when your sister tells you can’t possibly understand what she’s going through because you’re too abnormal from years of aerial service, and that you’re just jealous because you’ll never be pretty enough to make anyone love you enough to marry you... it... it is a difficult thing to shake off.”

“She said that to you?” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, appalled.

“She’s sixteen,” said Captain Bennet, dryly. “She has the unerring ability to find a person’s weakness and press on it, and the lack of judgement to do so.”

“Well it’s patently false,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Bennet, you’re gorgeous. Anyone with eyes can see that. I’m not sure I could name a handsomer woman than you.” He flushed and hoped she didn’t notice.

She snorted into her glass of champagne. “You’re a brick, Fitz. And I know that love isn’t... worth much if it’s built purely on physical appearance or attraction. My parents married based on attraction to each other and they’ve made each other miserable for the past twenty-odd years. But I....” Captain Bennet bowed her head and hunched over on herself. “I know aviatrixes do not marry. I knew that when I signed up.”

“You were seven though,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “I don’t think many seven-year-olds know if they should like to marry or not when they are fully grown. I think when I was seven I wanted to be a unicorn when I grew up.”

“It’s different for women,” said Captain Bennet. “You grow up knowing you must marry. Well, most do. I still got it in spurts whenever I was home, and never got it at the covert. It is... it is _freeing_ knowing I do not have to, that I never have to. And I think most aviatrixes are happy in that knowledge. They are happier not married. They never feel the pressure of needing a husband. I never have either, and I _thought_ I was happy about it but... just looking at Harville and his wife today, and all the happy married couples in the church, welcoming my sister to their number, for the first time I thought to myself, ‘that might be... nice.’”

“Nice,” echoed Colonel Fitzwilliam.

“The love behind it, not the ceremony or the legal status or what have you,” she concluded, after a moment. “That is— as I mentioned, I always knew I would never marry, so I can shake myself out of the silliness of wishing to give some man all my money, property, and legal rights, but I am a little afraid I shall never be loved.” She gave a shaky laugh. “And even then that is absurd! I know it is absurd! I have the love of my family, my friends, my dragon— that is so much more than so many people! I would not trade my life for anything. And so many marriages are not made out of affection at all! Did your parents marry out of affection?”

“No,” he admitted, “but I think they grew fond of each other and do love each other now.” Colonel Fitzwilliam did not know what to say. To expose his own feelings felt so weighty, so complicated a thing, and yet if so small an offering as his own heart would alleviate her present distress, Colonel Fitzwilliam felt he would give it at once. And yet, judging by her inability to currently look at him, he did not think his feelings would be welcome. “Bennet, I— you are the farthest thing from abnormal, in any respect. I think it is the human condition to wish to be loved. Everyone from the Greeks on philosophized over romantic love.”

“Do you... do you ever wish to be married, Fitz?”

“Yes,” he admitted after a moment. “Though honestly, Bennet, I very recently came to the realization that I don’t think I would be happy in the sorts of marriages my family makes. Dynasty building, that sort of thing.” He nudged her in the side. “I’m as romantic and sentimental as you are in that respect. I’m a terrible sap and want to be loved. See? Perfectly normal. Or perhaps careers in combat have made us both abnormal.”

She cracked a smile at that. “Thank you Fitz, you always can cheer me up.” Captain Bennet tossed her champagne back. “Well! Now I’m a little more assured Lydia was just spewing nonsense at me, I can dance happily at her wedding. Come on.” She leapt up and took his hands, pulling him upright, before realizing, “Oh damn! I’m not supposed to ask, am I?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam laughed. “It doesn’t matter. I should be delighted to dance with you. Is it getting started?”

“I paid for an orchestra, so I should hope so!”

They danced together twice before Marjorie, whom Colonel Fitzwilliam had not realized was even present, cut in and claimed his arm. He allowed himself to be towed away, on the pretense that Marjorie wanted to see the improvements made to the cover since Wickham destroyed half of it.

He was not entirely sure what it was she wished to talk to him about, but fancied it was Foreign Office business. He certainly didn’t expect Marjorie to hand him a glass of champagne and say, lightly, “Careful, my dear brother.”

“When I go to Spain, you mean? I shall do my best to be as careful as I can—”

“Not that,” said Marjorie. “Careful. If I can tell you have a _tendre_ for Captain Bennet, so can other people.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam flushed. “I, um. Er.” He wished a dragon would swoop down and spirit him away.

She leveled a swift, shrewd look over the rim of her champagne glass. “Take heart. What I notice and what ordinary people notice are very different. If no foreign agent is watching you and looking for weaknesses, or no enemy is seeking to discredit your regiment, you should be safe. When did it begin?”

“It has been creeping up on me since I first met her, but I— I suppose I really knew at a ball we held at Lisbon. She had on a sort of white thing, very floaty, over a golden shift, and she looked....” He cut himself off, a little embarrassed. “Sorry, I—“

“Does she know?” Marjorie asked, matter-of-factly.

“No, I don’t think so. I’ve tried to keep it from her. I know it’s my problem and not hers, and that it thoroughly mucks up our working relationship. As far as I know, I’m just good old Fitz to her. A co-commander, and a friend.”

“Does anyone else?”

“Lieutenant Lucas gave me a warning. I don’t think anyone else noticed.” He considered this. “Well, Darcy, possibly. Before he realized Miss Bennet and Captain Bennet were the same person he assumed I had formed an illicit and idiotic engagement with her.”

Marjorie patted him consolingly on the arm. “Poor Fitzbilly.”

He struggled. "But, that is... what Whig families are left to marry into? I cannot...."

"You cannot possibly act on your feelings for her," said Marjorie gently. "It is less a matter of your being necessary to building a Whig dynasty than Captain Bennet's being necessary to make life better for British women now and in all future generations. Captain Bennet is the second highest ranking woman in the British armed services. Only Admiral Roland is higher than she is. And do you recall what happened when it was found out that Admiral Roland had taken on Captain Lawrence as a lover? She was denied promotion, there was open insubordination, everyone assumed that Captain Lawrence was really issuing orders through her. It was a disgrace she only recovered from because the French invaded. If your enemies have reason to decry Captain Bennet as immoral, or to insist she does nothing but obey you... it is not just her career that is ruined. They will have taken ground we can ill afford to loose and insist women have no place in the services, or in command. Your working relationship must be above reproach."

Colonel Fitzwilliam sighed. “What should I do?”

“Continue as you are,” said Marjorie, “but drink less. _In vino veritas_ has always been a problem for you. I could only tell this evening because you had too much champagne to entirely hide what you were feeling.” After a moment she said, “I can’t fault your taste. I do like Captain Bennet.”

“I can fault myself,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “The one person I shouldn’t fall in love with....”

“God, how trite,” said Marjorie, amused. “Well Fitzbilly, I know you to be a gentleman. It will hurt, but it will pass, I promise you.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam managed to keep his feelings and his attraction to himself fairly decently until the siege of Ciudad Rodrigo, when a Flamme-de-gloire managed to rip Wollstonecraft’s neck harness in two. They were very close to the top of the walls surrounding the city; Wollstonecraft cried down curses on the enemy dragon and swerved away. Colonel Fitzwilliam tumbled off.

Wollstonecraft grabbed at him with a savage, “They shan’t get you!” and quickly and clumsily deposited him just behind the front line of attacking redcoats. A Plein-Vite rammed into Wollstonecraft’s side. Captain Bennet went flying. Colonel Fitzwilliam, with more instinct than thought, ran to try and catch her, and somehow managed to do so. He was knocked down for all his pains, with the wind knocked out of him to boot.

Captain Bennet was sprawled atop him, looking dizzy; Colonel Fitzwilliam fought for breath and tried to look around. There was movement just behind him; his involuntary gasp rather helped his vision focus in time to see the line of redcoats scattering. The ladder they had been defending, the one leading up to the top of the city’s fortifications, had been pushed off and was falling backwards.

Colonel Fitzwilliam wrapped his arms around Captain Bennet and rolled over with her, fortunately down an incline and away from the ladder. When they last rolled to a dusty halt, Colonel Fitzwilliam found himself on top of Captain Bennet.

“Apologies, Bennet,” he managed.

“None needed, we would have been crushed otherwise,” she got out breathlessly.

At the whistle of a howitzer shell, Colonel Fitzwilliam tried to spread himself more firmly over her, to protect Captain Bennet from any debris. The shell exploded overhead. He instinctively pressed down. Captain Bennet gripped him tightly and said into his ear, “Alright, Fitz? You didn’t get hurt?”

“I'm fine,” he said, waiting a moment. “Nothing hit me.” Then, after another moment, “Bennet, you need to release me if I’m to get off you.”

“Oh, right,” she said, but made no move to do so.

Colonel Fitzwilliam rather understood the impulse. He felt shaken, and wasn’t sure if he could do without the feeling of Captain Bennet breathing, however erratically in his arms, the whisper of her breath against his ear, reassuring him that she was alive. It was about this point that his confused mind forgot the fact that he was on a battlefield, and he found himself reacting to the fact that he was laying on top of the woman for whom he'd had a very strong preference for some months now, and she was holding tightly onto him.

His inner monologue now reduced to choice curses, Colonel Fitzwilliam scrambled up and off her, saying, “Come on, there's a second wave coming with new ladders any moment; we've got to move.” For a horrible moment, before he drew the drab overcoat he'd taken to wearing on dragonback shut, Colonel Fitzwilliam was sure she'd noticed his extremely ungentlemanly reaction but she was instead tenderly feeling her head. “Bennet, you alright?”

“I feel a little dazed,” she said, but pushed herself upright. “I don't have a goose egg though.”

“I'll get Colonel Dunne to look at it for you.” This being his regiment's new surgeon, a cheerful, somewhat eccentric Irishman. The former surgeon had been something of a nonentity; Colonel Fitzwilliam was pleased with Dunne. Captain Bennet gave a last prod at her hairline, nodded, and then they set off at a run, dodging French projectiles and oncoming redcoats. This had the welcome effect of getting rid of any proof of his attraction, but the memory haunted him well after the battle. He lay on his cot, disconsolately picking at a loose thread in his sheet, recalling the feel of her under him, clinging to him, and her wistful confession months ago: “I am a little afraid I will never be loved.”

‘God Bennet,’ he thought gloomily, ‘don’t you know you already are?’ Then, immediately, ‘No, and unfortunately you never can.’ He wished the thought brought him any measure of comfort.


	2. In which one mustn't rush a purebred Andalusian

To his severe mortification, Captain Bennet looked confused and a little troubled for several hours after the battle. Colonel Fitzwilliam was almost relieved when Colonel Dunne came by the next day and mentioned Captain Bennet’s concussion.

“Is it a bad injury to the head?”

“Not bad enough to permanently keep her from her duties,” said Colonel Dunne, tamping the tobacco down in his pipe. “But bad enough to require a week away from active duty. I’ve asked her sister, Mrs. Benwick, to watch over Captain Bennet while she's on bedrest.”

“Oh God,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “That might do more harm than good.”

“Eh?” Colonel Dunne looked up at him quizzically. “I never heard any harm of Mrs. Benwick. Rather a jolly girl, not easily overset.”

“Yes, not exactly the... restful sort of person one needs to have by a bedside.”

“Captain Bennet is so lively herself,” said Colonel Dunne, a little surprised. “I thought perhaps her spirits would need bolstering.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam blinked and then set down his pen and folded his hands together. “Forgive me for this observation, sir, but you never had younger sisters, did you?”

Colonel Dunne blinked. “No, I was an only child.”

“Yes— I’m the second of five, with three younger sisters. My sisters—particularly when they were sixteen— were the last people I wanted at my bedside when I was feeling low. I’d better go rescue Captain Bennet.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam tried to determine whether or not Captain Bennet had noticed his particular moment of weakness. If it was a concussion that caused her to look so surprised and dazed... and he had moved quickly... he toyed with his signet ring of Britannia, his greatest legacy from his uncle, Prime Minister Pitt the Younger, and thought to himself, ‘There’s no possible way she could have noticed. The wind was knocked out of her too. There was far too much going on for her to notice my problem.’

He wasn’t terrifically sure on this, but decided that if he was going to get on in life, he’d have to assume he was the only one aware of his ungentlemanly reaction. Colonel Fitzwilliam determinedly put it in the mental cabinet of ‘I-am-never-going-to-acknowledge-this-out-loud,’ where he put all the memories of his most embarrassing moments.

Colonel Fitzwilliam called for his aide, and hastily finished all his reports. Once his desk had been cleared, Colonel Fitzwilliam found a newspaper that didn’t seem more than three weeks out of date, and was cheered enough by this to steal an orange from one of the few trees in their camp that hadn’t yet been stripped of fruit. Technically speaking, the British army was supposed to exist purely on the provisions it brought with it, and senior officers were supposed to be extremely vigilant in punishing those who violated this law, but Colonel Fitzwilliam had worked out his own moral code about these things. Livestock theft he punished, without turning the men over to the provosts; he had decided that trees, unless they were in orchards clearly still being tended to by their owners, were all remarkably barren that year. It was almost as if there were no orange crop around this part of Spain at all.  

When he arrived at Captain Bennet’s tent, he was not surprised to see Mrs. Benwick, sitting on a camp stool, happily rattling away and Captain Bennet, lying prostrate on a camp bed, in shirtsleeves and trousers, looking as if she would happily throttle her sister.  

“—and then my dear Benwick, oh he was so dashing! Do you want to know what he did then, Lizzy?”

“I have a feeling you are about to tell me whether I want you do or not.”

“He was so frightfully jealous he nearly challenged that lieutenant of marines to a duel!”

“Lydia, you do recall that I am your husband’s commanding officer and that dueling is strictly forbidden to aviators?”

Mrs. Benwick blinked at her. “Well he didn’t actually challenge him to a duel, he just threatened it. And then he was ever so passionate, and then when we got back to our lodgings—”

“Stop,” wailed Captain Bennet. “Lydia, again, I repeat, I am your husband’s _commanding officer_ , do not tell me how he fulfills his marital duties! I only care about how he fulfills his duties to the Aerial Corps!”

“Well you _shouldn’t_! I am your sister and you ought to care about my happiness. Really, I had no idea you were such a prude.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam knocked on the tent post. Captain Bennet raised herself up on her forearms, her thick braid of dark hair falling over her shoulder. “Fitz! Thank God. You’ve got orders for me, don’t you? Some kind of mission?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam had taken care to tightly fold up the newspaper and held it aloft. “I have reports I need to discuss with you.”

“Leave us Lydia, this is confidential regimental business,” said Captain Bennet.

“I’m not sure you should be discussing that when you are concussed,” said Mrs. Benwick, folding her arms and frowning. “It will give you the headache.”

“I already have the headache,” said Captain Bennet, a little sourly.

“Then all the more reason you shouldn’t turn your mind to dreadful _business_ . I still haven’t told you about the ball _last_ week—”

“I just need Captain Bennet to listen to a report about horses,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, as he knew the racing news was included in the paper. “She needn’t make any judgements on them.”

“Those will make you go to sleep,” said Mrs. Benwick, then, after a moment, added, “although Colonel Dunne said that if Lizzy could still hold a coherent conversation, she could sleep. Perhaps she ought to sleep. I heard that is best when it comes to treating headaches. Mother always needs to rest in absolute silence when she has her sick headaches.” She patted Captain Bennet on the shoulder. “Some nice boring statistics about where all the military’s horses come from or whatever boring thing is in the report will be just the thing for you.”

“Do me a world of good,” agreed Captain Bennet.

Mrs. Benwick flounced off happily enough. Colonel Fitzwilliam still had his coat slung over his shoulder, with his shirtsleeves rolled and cravat loosened. Lax aerial corps dressing standards had begun to be more appealing the further they went into Spain. He fished the orange out of his pocket before abandoning his coat entirely. “Not really doctor’s orders, but I know your passion for raw fruit. If this campaign has taught me anything, it’s that sangria is not safe when you are near it.”

Captain Bennet lit up. “Oh, famous! Fitz, I’ll forgive that crack about sangria since you drove off Lydia. You are such a good egg.”

“I find that one of the odder bits of aerial slang,” he said, grabbing plate and table knife out of the detritus of Captain Bennet’s desk, “for all that it’s one of the most common.”

“How did you know I was in need of rescue, though?”

“I have three younger sisters myself,” he said. “And I must confess—” handing her the plate with the neatly sliced orange “— the report is actually the list of entries to the Newmarket races.”

Captain Bennet sat up and sat cross-legged on her camp bed. “Well, I know your passion for horses exceeds my own for raw fruit. Though it’s not an exact parallel. I think you would probably cry if you had to eat a horse.”

“Don’t say such dreadful things, Bennet,” he said, clutching his chest. “I’d rather starve to death than eat a horse. Anyhow, you’ll like the names of all the racehorses.”

She did, and enjoyed it hugely. They invented a game where they picked the most ridiculous names of racehorses tried to guess the names of their offspring. Claret and Champagne, for example, sired Regret, and Highflyer and Ensign led to Bankruptcy. Captain Bennet was particularly delighted with the very famous racehorse, Pot-8-O, or Potoooooooo, who was Perrault’s sire. Pot-8-O’s offspring included Mash, Puree, Shepherd's Pie, and Soup.

“Are we racing these horses or eating them?” asked Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Don’t make me cry, Bennet. Not after I so nicely got you an orange.”

“Orange you glad you did?”

“Not after that pun, no.”

Captain Bennet laughed and then stretched her arms over her head, with an audible popping and cracking sound. “Oof. I’m getting old. Fitz, did you ever have a problem with... er, I can’t think of an equivalent. You’re good friends with Mrs. Gowing, aren’t you?”

“Yes?”

“Though she doesn’t confide in you about her marriage, does she?”

“No, we mostly talk novels and music. I, er... there’s been instances where I have to drag officers out of brothels, or I’ve had angry wives or angrier mistresses demanding to know where such and such an officer is but thankfully that’s rare. My officers know I expect them to behave as gentlemen and I don’t hold with that sort of thing distracting from one’s duties. I must admit I’ve never been in a situation where someone’s, er... talking to me as your sister does, about my direct report.”

“I don’t want to think about the sexual proclivities of my officers, especially if they involve my sixteen-year-old sister,” said Captain Bennet. “But for God’s sake. They have no temperance. They seem to think that if they aren’t touching each other every moment they are together one or the other of them will literally die.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam couldn’t help it, he started laughing. He tried his best to muffle it in his hands and when Captain Bennet, now fighting a smile, chided him for it, he got out, “Suh-sorry Bennet. But you know. Saint Paul. It is better to marry than to burn.”

“I think Saint Paul gives very stupid advice,” said Captain Bennet, “and ought to be ignored.”

“Nail your theses to the doors of St. George’s, why don’t you: Saint Paul gives bad advice!”

“Come off it, you’re not religious, are you?”

“Sort of. I do care about people treating each other decently.”

“Oh, well, that’s morality.”

“And it has nothing to do with religion?”

“If the eighteenth century has taught us anything it is that morality and religion seldom have anything to do with each other. It’s why you’ve got Quakers and Methodists and the like popping up all over, trying to bring morality back into it.” She fished the last orange slice off her plate and offered it to him. Colonel Fitzwilliam waved his away and she said, “One thing I _do_ think is immoral in the Church of England is also— well I suppose it’s more hypocritical than immoral? Dragon captains have a duty to provide their dragons with another captain. It’s not just understood, it’s a concern of the Admiralty’s if you’ve been a captain more than five years and have no children. Before we left the Lines, Admiral Roland asked me and Mary Crawford if we’d put any plans in place yet.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam found himself blushing. “She... what?”

“She only did it because the Board of Admiralty put pressure on her,” said Captain Bennet, quick in Admiral Roland’s defense. “Don’t think meanly of Admiral Roland.”

“I’m not. I’m just... but Bennet, you told me at the wedding that female aviators don’t marry, and... oh, no.” His blush deepened. “I, er....” Mary Crawford had told him, at a ball in Lisbon, that bastardry was not uncommon in the Corps. Especially amongst the female aviators. He had been endeavoring to forget it. “Was it... rare then, that you inherited from your aunt?”

“Yes. Other aviators used to make fun of Aunt Bess for being so _genteel_ and such a proper lady she wouldn’t have a child without a husband. The truth was that she couldn’t bring herself to like men. And, you know, her sister had five daughters she couldn’t provide for, so it was a win for everyone involved, when I was chosen as Wollstonecraft’s second captain.” After a minute, Captain Bennet said, “I myself am inadvertently following in Aunt Bess’s example. If Lydia manages to have a girl, I’ll try and see if Wollstonecraft will take to her. It’s not that I don’t like men,” she hastened to assure him, blushing, “it’s that— Jane and Kitty are not yet married. It’s bad enough that they had a sister who eloped and then hastily married an aerial officer. A sister with a bastard child would blight their prospects forever. Mary Crawford said once they were both married, I’d have more leeway if I wished, but I... I don’t know. I already am such a risk to my sisters.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam did not know what to say. “Well you... have a plan, it sounds like; and a moral one. But I don’t... I don’t quite see where the Church of England comes into it, unless they’re very distressed at your niece inheriting a dragon.”

“No, it’s... um. Not everyone has siblings.” Captain Bennet blushed again. “Admiral Roland’s mother only had _her_ , so Admiral Roland, in turn, just found a time where she could be grounded in England for half a year and had Emily. The Church is being very awful about Emily, and saying to the legal courts that Emily can’t inherit Admiral Roland’s titles as she’s a bastard. But Emily was only born so that she could inherit Admiral Roland’s dragon! And no one was going to marry Admiral Roland, so what other options did she have?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam had to admit it seemed an impossible conundrum, though he did say, “Isn’t Captain Harcourt married, though?”

“You know, Catherine’s actually the best example I can think of, of how annoyed I am with the Church’s treatment of female dragon captains.  So, when you become a captain, you swear an oath of obedience to king, country, and dragon. As part of all that, Catherine goes and makes sure Lily— that’s her Longwing— has a second captain. Poor Catherine discovered she was pregnant while on a mission and then, when she came back, decided that the right thing to do would be to tell the father, this naval captain, that she was expecting and that she didn’t expect anything of him, and....” She paused. “Well, _I_ thought it was romantic. He proposed to her on the spot. Charlotte thought it was ridiculous and unnecessary, and my aunt Bess said that it was just like a man to make a nuisance of himself like that, and Admiral Roland thought it odd and out of touch with reality.”

“I think it only right that he take some responsibility for his child,” objected Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Even in my degenerate aristocratic circles it’s unthinkable for a man not to look out for his children, whether they’re born with his name or not. And it’s only right to offer marriage in such a situation as that.”

She tilted her head and looked thoughtfully at him. “Right, but, you see— poor Catherine was in a bind. Women have to vow to obey their husbands when they marry. Her husband’s a naval captain, so they both report to the Admiralty. It’s quite wrong that she should obey him, _especially_ since she’s a division captain and so many captains and other officers report to her. She can’t have anyone over her but an Admiral. But Catherine was already pregnant, and everyone knew it was Captain Riley’s child. And the clergyman on board the ship and all the ladies were horrified at the idea that she _wouldn’t_ marry Captain Riley and called it immoral. So either way there was no clear moral choice. She’d have to disobey _someone_.”

“I’m not sure I realized how impossible it is to exist in the world as a woman,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam.

“Or just a female dragon captain,” said Captain Bennet, smiling at him. “We’re a special, ornery breed. Acid-spitters, the lot of us.”

“How was this legal tangle solved?”

“Oh, Catherine married Captain Riley, but just refused to obey him. The clergyman was so flummoxed he just kept going. She was six months pregnant at the time, so I suppose he was willing to be a bit lax about everything as long as they were married before she went into labor. There’s an ongoing argument among Archbishops whether or not Catherine’s marriage was valid or not. She’s stopped keeping up with it.” Captain Bennet considered this a moment. “Though, I think it would be a relief to her if they did find it was invalid. Captain Riley keeps insisting she ought to resign from the Corps and raise their son. We were all terribly afraid that he’d be able to somehow make Catherine resign, but we’re so short on Longwings, the Board of Admiralty _had_ to insist he stop trying to separate Catherine and Lily. I do sympathize. I'd prize my vows to king and country over my vows to a man any day, no matter how nice it might be to be married. Catherine had a dress and everything! Though it can't be worth it when her husband's causing such trouble.”

“I don’t think many people take wedding vows literally, or even very seriously,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, still stymied. “Even if Captain Riley apparently thought they gave him grounds to meddle in Aerial Corps affairs when he had no actual authority to do so.”

“I forgot you are a degenerate aristocrat,” said Captain Bennet. “Above the rank of baron, everyone just sleeps with everyone, don’t they?”

“I don’t,” he objected. “And my father racketed about a bit in his youth but he never took a mistress after he married my mother. She actually complained about it after she found herself with child the fifth time. But yes, you are right, no one really pays much attention to wedding vows at a certain level of society.”

“Is that why you’re not married?”

‘That and I’m terribly smitten with you,’ thought Colonel Fitzwilliam with a spurt of gallows humor. “Um... it’s complicated.”

Captain Bennet appeared to search her memory. “Oh Fitz! Surely you can afford a wife by this point? They must have given you something for catching Wickham. They did for me.”

“Yes, but I... I don’t think any woman of sense could take a look at me and decide it is a good idea to risk living on less than two thousand a year, without house or estate, for the sake of....” He gestured vaguely to himself. “All this. A bad bargain, all told.”

She playfully wagged a finger at him. “Your modesty gets in your way, you know. I know you consider yourself a thoroughly average Everyman, but honestly, Fitz! I’ve heard Wellington refer to you as the model of an officer and a gentleman so many times I’ve begun to think of it as your Greek epithet. Rosy fingered dawn, gray-eyed Athena, and the model of an officer and a gentleman, Colonel Fitzwilliam.”

He laughed.

Captain Bennet persisted, “Putting aside the fact that you’re the war hero son of an earl, you’re one of the kindest, most decent people I know. You almost never lose your temper, you actually listen to other people and change your thinking based on what you’ve heard, you’re unfailingly considerate and attentive— and you are quite handsome when you’re not buried under five layers of uniform. Any woman of true sense could see how much of a catch you are.” She was very pink by the time she had finished, and couldn’t quite meet his eyes.

Colonel Fitzwilliam was very red himself. “I, er. I thank you Bennet. The other problem is, er... I think I mentioned when your sister married that I’m actually terribly sentimental.”

“Anyone who sees you cooing to your horses could pick up on that,” teased Captain Bennet, though she still seemed a little... off, somehow. Colonel Fitzwilliam felt a stir of hope, but then realized that Captain Bennet had been concussed the day before, and had a headache today. It was much more likely that she was not feeling well, and her defenses were so low she rambled on about anything that came to mind. She _had_ been unusually open with him on very delicate topics.

He tried to adopt a light and teasing tone. “So if this woman of sense and I suppose very clever housekeeping decides I’m worth taking a chance on, I have to be terribly picky and insist she do more than take a calculated risk— she must take it because she loves me as much as I love her. So you see, I’m really impossible as a prospect.”

“Poor Fitz!”

“It sounds silly—”

“Not at all! I like that you are. You’re a sweetheart.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam blushed. “Bennet, I—”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you, Fitz. I was trying to translate aviator slang. You’re a good egg. You’re a sweetheart. It’s not exact. I couldn’t hack it as a translator. I leave all the languages to Wollstonecraft.”

Even though it was a compliment, he still felt an inner lowering at this.

Fortunately Wollstonecraft landed and set her giant head down in front of Captain Bennet’s tent. “Lizzy, how is your head?”

“Not too bad,” she said, rolling off her bed, and pulling her boots on. “It aches but not as much as yesterday. I’m grounded and in bed rest for the next _three days_ , though, and I am forbidden to fly for a full week _._ It is terribly unfair.” Still she ran over to Wollstonecraft and flung her arms about her snout.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” said Wollstonecraft, her giant vertical pupil sliding towards him. “You are uninjured?”

“Yes, thanks to you.”

“You are in the sick tent.”

“It’s just _my_ tent,” protested Captain Bennet with a laugh. “Though true enough, I am only ever sleeping in my tent instead of by your side, when I am ill. Fitz was keeping me company, Wollstonecraft, because Lydia was driving me mad, with all her talk of mating.”

“Has she an egg yet?” Wollstonecraft asked, with interest.

“No, and I told her I only want to hear about the egg when she is about to prepare it for life in the Corps, not about her efforts to make one, and she has ignored me.”

Lieutenant Lucas was the only one aloft; she slid down Wollstonecraft’s side. “Lizzy, have you talked to any commanding officer besides Colonel Fitzwilliam since you were injured?”

“No. After Colonel Dunne left, it was all Lydia, all the time. She monologues more than Hamlet. Why?”

Lieutenant Lucas pushed her googles up into her hair, looking grim. “Every single dragon captain had their harness straps cut yesterday. Or had it attempted. You had the worst injury, but still....”

Captain Bennet blinked. “That’s bad luck but I’m not sure what you’re getting at, Charlotte. Everyone’s going to go for a dragon’s captain. That’s... how it works.”

“But every single member of our division.” Lieutenant Lucas insisted. “That’s... that’s too high to be anything but concerted strategy, and a possible weapons advance.”

Captain Bennet frowned. “I suppose the ground crew is already looking at Wollstonecraft’s harness.”

“They are,” said Wollstonecraft. “And I have asked them to consult with the other ground crews.”

But the results were inconclusive. Captain Wentworth and Captain Harville came later that week, with a couple strips of leather that had once been Attia’s harness. “I think Lieutenant Lucas might be trying to find patterns where none exist,” Captain Harville said, laying the pieces on the ground before the tent. “It looks like an ordinary claw mark to me. Attia didn’t feel anything out of the ordinary. Did Laconia?”

“She didn’t,” said Captain Wentworth.

Captain Bennet put her hands on her hips and studied the pieces of leather. “I suppose. But it’s... ugh.” She rubbed her forehead. “This blasted headache! It won’t go away.”

“Maybe because you don’t actually rest,” said Colonel Dunne, who had been attempting to examine her. “But what do I know, I’m merely a doctor. I only spent four years at the University of Edinburgh studying how the human body works.”

Captain Bennet ignored him. “It... it shouldn’t _be_ this clean a cut through leather over thick wire, should it?”

Captain Wentworth folded his arms. “You want to know my theory, Captain Bennet?”

“Yes.”

“Someone in the Admiralty is cheating us,” he said flatly. “One of the suppliers or provosts is giving us cheap metal and selling off the good iron to factories up north, or something of the kind. That, or the Spanish are not supplying us with the goods they promised us, or goods of any useful quality. Either strike me as likely.”

“I can look into it,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, but then, holding up a hand when Captain Bennet opened her mouth, “only if you promise you’ll rest."

She promised, but the next morning, Lieutenant Lucas showed up at the mess, just as Colonel Fitzwilliam and all his officers were rising from the table.

Colonel Fitzwilliam sat again and tried to locate a pot of coffee that wasn’t empty. Mrs. Gowing nolives his search and picked up a pot in the middle of the table, and Mrs. Smith located a clean cup and saucer. “Thank you, ladies. Lieutenant Lucas, how do you take your coffee?”

“Black,” said she, accepting the cup. “Colonel, I’m afraid I must ask your help with some base trickery. Captain Bennet won’t rest.”

Mrs. Gowing poured the coffee and handed it to Lieutenant Lucas, clucking her tongue. “That’s so very like her! She never takes a moment away from being a division captain.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam privately agreed with this, but said, “What do you need me to do, Lieutenant? Captain Bennet will hardly listen to me. That is, she will, and promise very nicely, and then immediately forget about it as soon as there’s another crisis.”

“She relaxes around you,” said Lieutenant Lucas, with a wry smile. “I need you to take her far enough from the camp that no one can come rushing to her over quarrels between midshipmen or the like. She won’t quit it for anyone of lower rank than herself and if she’s around any aviators she won’t leave off her epaulettes, so to speak. And I think her exhaustion will catch up with her if she’s not constantly aware of her duties.”

“I can’t promise success, but I’ll try,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. He had both his horses saddled and, when he arrived at Captain Bennet’s tent said, “Bennet, Dunne tells me you’re ready for a little gentle exercise. What say you try riding Dulcinea, in order to get a good sense of the countryside here?”

He clicked his tongue three times, and Dulcinea tossed her white mane in a purposefully charming manner.

Captain Bennet looked dubious. “I’m not a terrifically good rider.”

“Fortunately for you, Dulcinea is a terrifically well-trained horse. Come on, all you need to do is sit in place. Her gait is so easy, it’s as if you’re not riding at all.”

Captain Bennet later called this a barefaced lie, but she was persuaded to get up on horseback and ride with him far enough down the Águeda River that they could no longer see the camp. When she began to really flag, Colonel Fitzwilliam managed to find a cool, grassy knoll under a juniper tree. It was a fragrant spot, which overlooked the river, and one of the few, still standing Roman bridges of the city; and the shade was very welcome in the growing heat of the late morning.

“The horses need a rest,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “I’ll water them. Bennet—”

But she had already settled herself at the base of the tree and was asleep. He felt a swell of almost painful tenderness, and then turned back to his horses. It soothed him to tend to them. He even took off their saddles and blankets, so that they would not be overheated. (Captain Bennet woke at this, but only to demand one of the blankets, sprawl out on it, and immediately fall asleep again.) Perrault kept to the shade of the juniper tree, happily pulling up whatever grass he could get at, around his bit, but Dulcinea found a bloated wineskin in the shallows of the river, and, after Colonel Fitzwilliam stuck a bit of bread in it for her, entertained herself by trying to get the bread out.

Colonel Fitzwilliam sat with his back against the tree and watched Dulcinea prancing about the shallows, nosing at the wineskin before grabbing it between her teeth and shaking it back and forth, obviously enjoying herself. The longer this went on, the better he felt. He discovered that he’d really needed a rest too. Not sleep perhaps, but a moment not to be a colonel, but just to be the ridiculously named Richard William Fitzwilliam, who was sentimentally fond of his horses. Captain Bennet stirred beside him, and then said, fuddledly, “I’m so sorry, it’s so tranquil here. And that and the heat made me so terribly tired—”

“Go back to sleep, Bennet,” he said, glancing away from Dulcinea. “It’s only been an hour.”

“But I should....”

“You shouldn’t disturb Dulcinea,” he said reprovingly. “Look how much fun she’s having.”

Captain Bennet raised herself up on an elbow to look. “Oh _well_. I clearly cannot rush your horse.”

“Absolutely not. She’s a purebred Andalusian. She gets all the time she needs.”

Captain Bennet smiled at him. She looked so remarkably pretty, in her usual at ease uniform of boots, trousers, shirt, and loosened waistcoat, with the softness of sleep clinging to her, and her hair escaping its queue. The dappled light, filtering through the leaves of the juniper tree, adorned her like living flecks of gold. “I wish it was always like this,” she said, softly.

He glanced at her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean... we....” She blushed. “Nothing, it’s... I’m only half awake. I think I’d better go back to sleep. You won’t be dreadfully bored?”

“I brought the first book of _Don Quixote_ with me,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said. “I had a feeling you might need a siesta. D’you want my coat for a pillow?”

“Oh yes, thank you.”  

Colonel Fitzwilliam settled himself back against the tree, propping the spine of his book against one bent knee. He turned pages with his right and let his left hand fall to his side. Captain Bennet turned in her sleep, and her hand came to rest beside his.

“I wish it was always like this, too,” Colonel Fitzwilliam mused to himself, and thought to himself that at least he would always have this— this moment of shared rest; the recollection of this sun-dappled tranquility.


	3. In which Wellington is his usual rakish self

“Who’s the pretty creature there?” Wellington asked abruptly, at a ball thrown by the mayor of Salamanca.

“They’re all pretty creatures,” protested some aide or other, to the general approbation of the group.

Everyone was rather drunk— except for Wellington, who never did more than touch a glass of wine to his lips— and Colonel Fitzwilliam was in a particularly drunken state of bonhomie, for his division had won an eagle. It was the top honor a division could achieve, seizing the regimental and national flags of an opposing enemy. Throwing the long pole, with its Napoleonic eagle on top of it, at Wellington’s feet was one of the proudest moments of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s life. He was still dazed with the triumph on it, and had spent some time earlier that evening doodling new variations on their regimental badge, trying, in some way, to include the imperial eagle in chains. Unfortunately, the image of a Longwing with crossed muskets before it did not really need a pair of wings anywhere, and the badge itself looked stupidly busy if he had an eagle in front of the crossed muskets.

“Spanish ladies are some of the loveliest creatures I ever beheld,” declared one of Wellington's aides, Colonel de Lancey. “They rival even our English beauties, would you not agree, Your Grace?”

“Ha,” said Wellington. This was a noise he often made and signaled mostly that he had heard whatever was being said and did not feel inclined to comment on the matter further. Then to Colonel Fitzwilliam he turned and said, “She’s come in with the aviators. Not the wife of an officer, I hope?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam followed the line of his gaze and tried to discern between well-dressed brunettes (Wellington's usual type), to discover which had caught Wellington’s attention. There were a number of them, just now entering with the aviators, who always did turn up late when they were traveling by foot or carriage instead of dragon. “Er... color of the gown, sir?”

“Red. Came in after Admiral Roland, with er... what’s his name. Captain of Laconia. Captain Wentworth.”

Colonel Lawford gaped. “Why, I think that’s Captain Bennet!”

It was indeed Captain Bennet, in a claret-colored gown and garnets set in gold, her hair up in curls and constrained with a gold bandeau. She was with the Benwicks, looking rather annoyed by Mrs. Benwick; but then Captain Wentworth (who looked irritatingly good in full dress uniform), leaned down to say something and Captain Bennet laughed.

Colonel Fitzwilliam’s mouth went dry with longing. He cleared his throat. “I believe it is Captain Bennet, Your Grace. She walked in with the Benwicks; and Mrs. Benwick is her sister.” Then, he tried to joke his feelings away. “She cleans up a great deal better than me, Your Grace!”

Wellington snorted. “A considerable understatement, Colonel Fitzwilliam.”

Admiral Roland had come in as well and made her way over to them, scowling at her skirts. “Look Atty,” she said, as the other redcoats dispersed, “I’m willing to bow to convention every once in a while, but they really can’t expect us to rig ourselves out like this every time we win a battle?”

“You won’t put on skirts for the King of Spain, Roland?” asked Wellington, raising an eyebrow.

She snorted. “Not when I’ve put on trousers for the King of England. Have some loyalty, you dreadful Irishman.”

Wellington looked annoyed. He didn’t particularly care for attention to be called to his more Gaelic origins. He folded his arms and said, dryly, “You might reverse the usual order of things and take some lessons from Captain Bennet. She is a true _elegante_ this evening.”

Admiral Roland, in a high-collared gown and pinned shawl that looked like something Bodecia would wear when about to hop on the back of her dragon, turned to look at Captain Bennet. “Oh yes. She and Captain Crawford actually like this sort of thing. They’ve been working at their dresses all week. I never understood the passion some women have for gowns. You can hardly walk in these. What would happen, I ask you, if we’re called suddenly to dragonback? I’d fall off my dragon, first step I took.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam said, “I noticed that the Chinese aviators all wore a sort of gown, over their trousers.”

“Oh yes! They gave me one, as a gift! Wish I’d thought to wear that this evening. Dead comfortabe, too. Knee-length skirt, which is manageable, with these slits up the hips so that you can clamber about as easily as if you were in uniform. The trousers are too baggy to fit easily into boots but the silk’s so fine, I hardly care!” She sighed. “There’s always a next time.”

Wellington excused himself from their already much diminished group. Admiral Roland’s hand shot out before he could take more than a step. She seized his arm. Wellington was so shocked someone had touched him without his express invitation that he stood and stared at her in mute incredulity. Colonel Fitzwilliam quailed at such a freezing look directed down such a famously prominent nose, but this had no effect on Admiral Roland whatsoever.

“Were you about to go over to Captain Bennet, Atty?”

“Yes. She and Colonel Fitzwilliam won their first eagle today. It is a great victory for the Mixed Model Division. As it would be extremely odd if I asked Colonel Fitzwilliam to dance in recognition of this feat, I thought I might beg the honor of Captain Bennet’s hand.”

Admiral Roland leveled a shrewd glance at him. “Hands off, Atty. She isn’t in need of your particular services. She plans on having a niece inherit Wollstonecraft.”

“Is it guaranteed Wollstonecraft will take another niece?”

“No, but it’s worth a try.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “I mean it. Hands off my officers, you rakehell! Especially Captain Bennet. She’s too ready to fall in love to be rational about keeping an appropriate distance with one’s lovers. And don’t you have a wife?”

“Unfortunately,” he said, dryly.

She shook her head. “I didn’t keep enough of an eye on Harcourt and we are still sorting out _that_ mess. I’ve got my eye on you.”

“Am I allowed the privilege of a dance?” Wellington asked. “I was made a duke of Spain today.”

“Only if you keep your hands where I can see them,” Admiral Roland said darkly. “And I mean to watch your hands very carefully. Colonel Fitzwilliam, you’ll dance this set with me, won’t you?”

“Of course, Admiral. It would be my honor.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam felt a very unreasonable surge of jealousy, that melted into a more aggravating despondency that he could be no competition for someone like Wellington— handsome, titled, rich, and undoubtedly _exceptional._ Indeed, he had trouble even thinking of himself as a rival when there was such a gulf of accomplishment between them. Thankfully, Admiral Roland was a terrible dancer. He was too busy correcting for her mistakes and guiding her through the set to torment himself by overhearing much of the conversation between Wellington and Captain Bennet, or to catch more than glimpses of her as she danced down the set, with more energy than grace. But what glimpses he had!

The wine red jewels at her throat and ears, winking in the candlelight; the long gleaming spill of claret silk swirling about her legs; the richness of her smile, even seen in flashes or at an angle— he drank it in with his eyes, and felt intoxicated.

When he was at the top of the set and Admiral Roland took their few moments of rest to untangle her torn skirt-hem from the heel of her shoe, Colonel Fitzwilliam joked about whether he ought to keep an eye on Captain Bennet.

“I should hope you usually do in battle,” Admiral Roland said acidly. “She does for you.”

“I hadn’t realized this was a battle,” he said, and saluted. “I shall to my duty, Admiral.”

She gave a grunt of approval and yanked hard on a thread. This only made the problem worse.

Colonel Fitzwilliam turned to watch Captain Bennet, who appeared to be having a splendid time.  Wellington was obviously flirting, his gaze appreciative, his touches lingering, but Captain Bennet seemed more amused than taken with Wellington. Or so he hoped. As he watched her, Colonel Fitzwilliam entertained an odd fantasy where he was not himself, but a handsomer and richer and overall better version; the sort of man who regularly captured enemy standards, instead of only achieving such a feat in his early thirties. He mentally gave himself a peerage awarded for valor in battle before realizing that Captain Bennet was made uncomfortable by titles outside of the military hierarchy. Well no matter, he could still be  someone who had accomplished incredible things in his early twenties, like so many members of his family— had become history’s youngest prime minister, had been appointed governor of Malta, had helped secure victory in the Americas against the French, had traveled to the far side of the world with Sir Joseph Banks— without a title. He mentally wiped out his participation in the awful and unjust campaigns in India and was shocked at how much better he felt about himself. If he was this sinless, scarless, sanctified version of himself, at the end of the set he would stride over to Captain Bennet. He would bow and ask her to dance and sweep her off her feet... and somehow be so utterly charming she would fall instantly in love with him. By the end of the dance he would have declared himself, she would joyously accept the offer of his hand—

And then, thought Colonel Fitzwilliam, forcing himself to pop this bubble of untenable fantasy, Napoleon would show up and threaten the Duke of Wellington and he, Colonel Fitzwilliam, would instead manfully slay Napoleon in a duel, at which point Zeus would descend from Mount Olympus and offer to grant him immortality and a flying horse. Why not go all out, when imagining things that could never happen.

The dance thankfully ended and Colonel Fitzwilliam went in search of Lawford, the first friend he could think of. When he found him smoking outside, Colonel Fitzwilliam joined him, though he did not generally like smoking. (He did not care for the taste, and it was only after several glasses of wine that he could smoke even a cheeroot without feeling slightly nauseous.)

After talking in a desultory fashion of the battle, Colonel Fitzwilliam asked, “Lawford, were you able to confirm my suspicions?”

Lawford looked about and lowered his voice, even though there was no one about but the feral dragons, romping in the garden, and annoying a Spanish servant who did not wish for them to be there. “Yes. By God Fitz, your contacts with the quartermasters are more reliable than mine! I have to ask the same question half-a-dozen ways to get answers you got on the first try. It’s been too complicated getting flying rigs over from England, so the dragon crews have been making or repairing their own here. And what we can supply here all comes from Spain.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam shook his head. “God. So do you think it’s a question of our getting bad materials, or one of ours trading the good steel for bad?”

“I’ve gotten my hands on a sample of the steel the Spanish have been giving us, and another of the steel wire we send onto the corps, and had my batman give them to yours. Have one of the Aerial Corps blacksmiths look at it. I’m no expert, but steel really shouldn’t, er... be _brittle_.”

“That does seem to defeat the purpose of using steel.” Colonel Fitzwilliam flung the butt of his cheeroot out into the garden. Gherni squawked in outrage and surprise. “Oh blast— sorry Gherni!”

She leapt up onto the terrace and fluttered her wings at him, holding out a scaly paw, insisting she had been injured.

“Has she?” asked Lawford. “I thought dragons were fireproof.”

“They aren’t, they’re just fire-resistant,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “And Gherni isn’t injured, she’s just dramatic. But I feel bad anyhow. Sorry old girl.”

She looked soulfully at him and twined about him, butting at his hand in the way that usually meant she was hungry. It was astonishing, reflected Colonel Fitzwilliam. Even during the invasion of Britain, he wouldn’t be able to understand anything a dragon did, but by the particular pattern of her chirps and the set of her wings, Colonel Fitzwilliam knew Gherni was begging for cheese. “Right, hold off, greedy guts.” Turning to Lawford, he asked, “Old Nosey is aware I’m looking into this?”

“He is and he’s furious about the problem,” said Lawford. “He knows we need to keep it quiet while investigations are ongoing, lest we spook our malefactors. But you know old Nosey. If things aren’t up to his standard, he goes into a cold fury. You have his backing on this.” Then, leaning in to whisper into Colonel Fitzwilliam’s ear, “Major Hogan has sent out inquiries through his network. And you recall Lieutenant Sharpe?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam nodded. “Planted false information with a French spy, didn’t he?”

“Yes. He heard rumors someone is selling the good steel to the French. He may have a lead for you.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam went into the supper room and stole a wheel of cheese and a loaf of bread. He then totally misused his dress sword by cutting the bread and cheese into thin slices. Some he hand-fed to Gherni, others he purposefully used to lure Maestro Monotya’s fire-breathing Buscapé, Fezzik, up on the terrace. He coaxed Fezzik into producing a low flame, put some cheese on the edge of his sword, and toasted it.

The first he burnt terribly, and split between Gherni and Fezzik, but the second turned out alright, and he put it on some bread. Someone laughed when he did this, and he turned from where he was leaning on the balustrade, to see Captain Bennet. She was framed beautifully by the open French doors. It really wasn’t fair of her to look so lovely, for the claret color to bring out the burnished gold of her complexion, for the one dangling dark curl at the nape of her neck to lie against her décolletage, for her to smile at him in this way, as if she had been searching for him for far longer than the two dances he had missed while talking to Lawford and stealing cheese. Immediately after this thought, Colonel Fitzwilliam admonished himself, ‘The only unfair things here are the expectations you are placing on her. It’s a _good_ thing if she hasn’t noticed your feelings for her.’

“I wondered where you had gone off to,” Captain Bennet said merrily. “I thought you liked balls!”

“I do,” he protested, glad he hadn’t bitten into the cheese yet. “I just don’t like how late supper is. Care for a Welsh rarebit?”

“Yes, I’m starved.”

“Take this one, then. I’ll make another.”

Captain Bennet perched on the ballustrade beside him, to eat her toasted cheese, and to watch him at work. Colonel Fitzwilliam tried not to look at her exposed ankles and calves, feeling this to be a ridiculous thing to be distracted by, and turned to give Gherni a slice of bread. He floundered in a confusion of feelings, unsure what to do or what to act on; how to be or what to say, when all he most wanted to do was take Captain Bennet in his arms before anyone else saw how wonderful she really was, and kissed her as he could not. He gave Gherni a slice of cheese instead.

Gherni whistled her appreciation and affectionately nosed his leg.

Captain Bennet laughed. “Did you ever think you would be this comfortable with dragons?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam impaled another slice of cheese on his sword. “Not really, no. Fezzik, _fogo por favor._ ” Fezzik looked incredibly sad. “Oh alright yes, one for the cook.” He tossed Fezzik a slice of cheese, and was rewarded with the proper stream of fire.

She regarded him curiously. “You disappeared after your dance with Admiral Roland. Was it that bad?”

“Er, no comment.”

“Was I not supposed to dance with General Wellington? I noticed you and Admiral Roland were looking at me, but I don’t know—”

“No, no, not that,” he hastened to assure her, trying to tamp down a new flare of unworthy jealousy. “You, er. You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

“I did. His Grace is a very good dancer. And a _terrible_ flirt.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam was not inclined to hear any more on this subject and blurted out, “Lawford told me something I’m not... pleased about. In regards to our supply problem. I’ve been musing on it.”

“Has he found anything out?”

Captain Bennet picked up a slice of bread as Colonel Fitzwilliam pulled a newly toasted slice of Manchego out of Fezzik’s stream of fire. He scraped the cheese onto the bread before saying, “Yes and no. He thinks someone’s selling our good steel to the French and replacing it with bad quality items before sending it onto the aerial corps. Which does make sense. No one in your regiment has entirely new flying rig do they?”

“No, we mend as we go on. It’s easier to patch it up than create new dragon harnesses each time.”

“Ah,” he said, frowning at his toasted cheese. “So that... that does make sense. Um. As I said." He rubbed his forehead with his free hand and wished he'd recalled just how much he'd had to drink that evening. "We wouldn’t catch onto there being any problem for months. And then, of course, the ground crews wouldn’t immediately be able to spot the problem because enough of the harnesses are made with steel wire from England....”

A rather scruffy individual in the dark green uniform of the 95th rifles came out of the ballroom. “Colonel Fitzwilliam?”

“Yes? Oh, it’s you, Sharpe. Care for a Welsh rarebit?”

Lieutenant Sharpe accepted one, more out of bewilderment than anything else, and then eyed Captain Bennet with admiration. “Hello, darlin’, how are you this fine evening?”

“Quite well, I thank you,” said Captain Bennet, lips twitching.

“What are you doin’ out here with all these dragons? Beauty taming all these beasts?”

Captain Bennet stifled a laugh behind her gloved hand. “Oh good Lord. I see why Admiral Roland keeps calling you to her tent. You’re quite the charmer, aren’t you, Lieutenant Sharpe?”

Lieutenant Sharpe gaped at her.

“You know my co-division head, Captain Bennet?” Colonel Fitzwilliam asked dryly.

Lieutenant Sharpe hastily drew himself up into a salute. “Ma’am! Captain!”

“At ease,” she said, leaning back on her hands and idly swinging a foot. “Were you looking for Colonel Fitzwilliam?”

“Yes, though I s’ppose you’ve as much a right to hear what I have to say as any, captain. I’ve managed to trace a... suspicious transaction to a certain individual. A quartermaster I’ve had my eye on, and some Spanish bastard what calls himself a guerilla. Though I don’t think you should call yourself that if you’re taking pay from both sides. They’re meeting again this evening, to fence some spoils from the battle. I think they figured with all the nobs here at the ball, they could get away with it.”

Perhaps it was his heroic fantasies of earlier, or perhaps it was his eagerness to put himself out of the temptation of tipsily declaring himself to Captain Bennet, but Colonel Fitzwilliam found himself volunteering to go with Lieutenant Sharpe to the meeting place. Captain Bennet vehemently objected to this until he promised to take Gherni with him. It was also how, about an hour later, he found himself taken prisoner by a corrupt quartermaster and several Spanish opportunists masquerading as guerillas.

It was in a way, very fortunate that someone British was embezzling, thought Colonel Fitzwilliam, as he, Gherni, and Lieutenant Sharpe were overpowered in the courtyard of a dilapidated coaching inn on the outskirts of town. Instead of being immediately murdered, the quartermaster immediately realized that such a one as Colonel Fitzwilliam— son of an earl, grandson of one Prime Minister, nephew and godson to another, recent winner of an eagle— would be a good person to ransom.

Colonel Fitzwilliam was even granted the favor of writing the note out himself, which he did very carefully. As he was reading the note over, he said, “Lieutenant— the person who would best be able to get her hands on that much gold at once would be my co-leader of the division, Captain Bennet.”

The quartermaster was very pleased that Colonel Fitzwilliam was going to be so accommodating.

“The problem is,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, thinking quickly, “is that we haven’t much occasion to write to each other since we are of the same division. She might not recognize my hand. And she certainly wouldn’t recognize my seal.” He looked unhappily at the quartermaster’s hand, where his signet ring of Britannia now resided. “If I... if I sent it by our little courier dragon here, she would believe it was me.”

“The dragon would be able to find us again, wouldn’t she?” asked the lead guerilla, suspiciously.

“You overestimate the intelligence of dragons,” Colonel Fitzwilliam lied smoothly. “They’re like dogs. They always return to their owners, and can chase after prey, but that’s it.”

Gherni croaked at him reproachfully.

The quartermaster was not inclined to believe in the intelligence of dragons, and the smugglers were not at all familiar with dragons, so this plan was agreed to. Colonel Fitzwilliam let himself be tied back to his chair, the very picture of docility. Lieutenant Sharpe, who had come off the worse from their fight, spat out a gob of blood on the floor.

“No fight in you at all, is there,” he said witheringly.

“I fight smart, not hard,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, pleasantly. “Just you wait, Lieutenant Sharpe.”

Indeed, within a quarter of an hour, there were gunshots outside.

“What on earth....” The quartermaster got up to open the window, to reveal Wollstonecraft’s giant eye.

“Hello,” said Wollstonecraft. “You have something that belongs to me.”

The quartermaster screamed.

Then Captain Bennet quite literally kicked down the door and shot a man in the face.

She had exchanged her necklace for a borrowed officer’s gorget, and had four holstered pistols strapped to her chest, and swordbelt about her hips, but she was still in her ballgown. The ballgown, Colonel Fitzwilliam noticed, had somehow acquired hip-high slits, so that she could fence almost as easily as when in trousers.

To Colonel Fitzwilliam’s eyes, as she stood in the doorway, calmly tossing side her spent pistol and drawing another, Captain Bennet had never been more beautiful. She was as gray eyed Athena, sweeping through the powdersmoke, taking out her wrath upon the unworthy. And yet, she was still very much Captain Bennet. She clocked a guerilla charging at her with the butt of her spent pistol, when he dodged her shot, and called out, “Colonel Fitzwilliam, you owe me a new dress! I ruined this one for you, and I _just_ got it.”

“I acknowledge the debt,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, deciding that the best thing to do would be to stay put. And it was, for the next moment Wollstonecraft ripped the roof off.

The quartermaster fainted.

One more intrepid guerilla tried to pull his sword on Captain Bennet, but the others surrendered at once to Lieutenant Lucas, who had rushed up behind Captain Bennet.

“What the hell?” asked Lieutenant Sharpe. “I heard you read your note aloud to those bastards! I saw you write it! There was nothing in there to lead her to us.”

“You don’t think at this point, Lieutenant Sharpe, that I can convey a message to Captain Bennet that only she could read?” Colonel Fitzwilliam asked. “A ransom note from me, with very careful references to our situation, delivered by a dragon who could convey our position and the numbers of men holding us captive....”

“Ah,” said Lieutenant Sharpe. “Fight smart, not hard.”

“It’s strategy, Sharpe,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, cheerfully. “And you’ll notice we now have four prisoners to interrogate about our steel.”

“You’re some lucky bastard,” said Lieutenant Sharpe.

“Lucky in my friends, perhaps,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “The rest is strategy. Or, to be more honest about it, base trickery.”

Lieutenant Lucas heard that and smiled, though she didn’t take her eyes off the prisoners. Wollstonecraft reached down and picked up the guerilla fighting Captain Bennet and shook him.

“No,” said Wollstonecraft, in the manner of a human correcting a badly behaved dog. “Bad.”

The man screamed and tried to stab Wollstonecraft with his sword. She tossed him over her shoulder. Colonel Fitzwilliam did not particularly want to know how that ended for the guerilla.

Captain Bennet wiped a smear of blood off her lip with the back of her hand, before walking over to Colonel Fitzwilliam and Lieutenant Sharpe. She sliced through the ropes with a mock scolding, “Fitz, you wretch, I told you something like this would happen when you decided to go with Lieutenant Sharpe!”

“Yes, which is why I knew you could get me out of it.” He shook out his wrists and stood. “Lieutenant Sharpe, pray assist Lieutenant Lucas in getting the prisoners on board Wollstonecraft.”

Wollstonecraft lowered her front paw and, as the last man in her paw had been unceremoniously cast into the outer darkness, the guerillas were understandably upset at the idea of climbing aboard. The two lieutenants sighed and applied themselves to their task. 

Colonel Fitzwilliam then turned to Captain Bennet.

To his surprise, the sword dropped from her hand and clattered to the floor. Captain Bennet flung her arms around him. “Good God, Fitz, I was terrified for you!”

Colonel Fitzwilliam was shocked to find her trembling. He held onto her tightly and buried his nose in her curls. He liked the scent of the pomade she’d used to keep them in place and breathed in deeply before letting out his own shuddering breath.

“I was so frightened for you,” said Captain Bennet. “You had nothing, except a sword covered in toasted cheese!”

“I had you,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, too shaken to guard his speech. “So I knew it would all turn out fine.”

She let out a watery laugh and fisted her hands in the back of his coat. “Don’t take such a stupid risk again. I don’t even know why you did this, it is so unlike you— you never fall prey to these stupid feats of machismo.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam realized then how much his actions that evening had been stupidly motivated by jealousy, by a desire to impress— and realized, with a spark of hope, that perhaps Captain Bennet liked him because he wasn’t the sort to blindly charge into a situation, armed with no better plan than aggressive masculine pride. This flared into a blaze of wishful thinking— that perhaps he needn’t be anything more than he was for her to like him, for her to perhaps even feel tenderly towards him.

“Sorry, Bennet, I was too drunk to come up with a better plan,” he said, squeezing her tighter. “I promise, in future, never to embark on an action unless stone cold sober.”

She tilted her head back to look at him. He was touched and alarmed to see she was crying.

“Bennet, my dear,” he said, surprised, and gently thumbed a tear off her cheek. His hand lingered there. It was impossible to look away from her. “I’m sorry. I hadn’t realized how much I upset you.”

“It isn’t _you_ , it’s the situation,” she said, sniffling. “Fitz, if something had happened to you....”

“Nothing did.”

“But if it had,” she insisted. “I... God, Fitz! I would never recover from such a blow.”

He swallowed. He was very conscious of how close they were, how her pistols were digging into his chest, how his right hand rested on her cheek and his left above the slit in her gown; how if he just bent his head a little, their lips would brush—

Wollstonecraft let out a sudden roar of annoyance and they pulled apart.

“Don’t just shove them all in my bellynetting,” she snapped. “They’ll fall out. Have you ever even _been_ on a dragon before, Lieutenant Sharpe?”

Captain Bennet said, “We should....”

“Yes,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam and, with a great effort of will, stepped back and away from her. His hands dropped uselessly to his sides.

Captain Bennet cleared her throat and wiped her eyes on the back of her hand.

“Take this,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, taking his handkerchief out of his pocket. “I, um. The quartermaster stole my signet ring, just a moment. Let me get it off his hand before we heave him into the bellynetting too.”

The quartermaster and his friends were questioned extensively when they returned to the British camp, which lead to the unwelcome news that the French needed a great deal of steel wire near the town of Ronda, in the south of Spain.

Maestro Montoya, a Spanish dragon captain, groaned at this.

“What makes Ronda so dangerous a place to keep steel wire?” Wellington asked.

“Ronda is in the heart of Andalusia,” said Maestro Montoya.

“Where you breed Andalusian horses?” asked Colonel Fitzwilliam.

“And where we train them,” Maestro Montoya said, “to fight side by side with dragons. Firebeathing dragons. Whose eggs we keep on our horse farms, to accustom the horses to the smell and the dragons to the horses. I do not know what they need so much steel for, but whatever it is will be bad for us.”


	4. In which the French attack

Maestro Montoya went on a reconnaissance mission, and Wellington pushed on, towards Madrid. The Mixed Model Division was left, frustratingly, to wait at Salamanca. Colonel Fitzwilliam took on the lion’s share of socializing with the inhabitants of the city, as his officers and his wives all liked their share of society, and could by now speak Spanish with tolerable proficiency, but found himself taking less, smiling more, and dwelling really more than he needed to on the fact that he’d very nearly kissed Captain Bennet.

By virtue of mutual embarrassment and the very British determination that not talking about a thing expunged it from existence, they had not spoken about it, but Colonel Fitzwilliam could not help but notice there was a... delicateness to their friendship that hadn’t been there before. Theirs had been a bluff and battle-ready camaraderie— warm, and comfortable. They had been at ease with each other, relaxed into all disparate parts of themselves, not just the version of themselves circumstances required them to be.

That was still there, Colonel Fitzwilliam thought, absently tapping a letter from Darcy on the edge of his writing table, as one of the worthies of Salamanca continued on in his speech about the inevitable defeat of the French. But... Colonel Fitzwilliam struggled with himself and tried to come up with an appropriate metaphor. Their friendship before had been a cavalry sabre, steady and effective, strengthened and honed by battle— something unusual in everyday life, to be sure, but a necessity in the militaristic world in which they lived. The effective wielding of such a sword, or such a friendship, had been the saving of them both and others, more times than he could presently recall. Now everything felt like a rapier bent back, to test the flexibility of the steel. There was a sense of unplanned tension, of something not quite working as it ought. At any moment the blade could whip out of one’s hold and cause unintentional injury. But if wielded skillfully— there was a greater degree of flexibility wasn’t there? Greater utility, greater ease of movement, greater adaptability with less force....

But there was also a degree of almost maudlin self indulgence in this metaphor. He himself preferred a rapier, and if he was going to be scrupulously honest with himself, his admiration for Captain Bennet had begun when he had first seen her fencing. Why had it been that, he asked himself, smiling and nodding as the Spanish gentleman before him said that surely Napoleon was on the run. Usually when poets talked about seeing a goddess go, the object of their affection wasn’t racing down a fencing piste, beating the swords out of the hands of anyone foolish enough to challenge her. The turn of the waist was noted, over the turn of the wrist that provided such an effective dégagé. But he’d always been bored by love poetry; perhaps he had now discovered why. He could not love images pinned to the page, a life stilled or frozen. It was the movement, the fight, the action of a person that engaged him. Why, the young widow with whom he’d spent his nights in India had first come to his attention while she was riding to hounds. If he was going to fall in love—

‘Oh love now, is it?’ Colonel Fitzwilliam asked himself. ‘It’s not love, it’s a fancy, and you had best get over it.’

Then his baser self asked, ‘But why? She would have kissed you, then. You know she would have.’

‘How the devil could I know that?’ he argued.

This usually signaled the beginning of a fruitless and particularly frustrating inner dialogue that always ended with him having to do stupid tricks on one of his horses to get out of his own head, and a truly horrifying number of people had seen him making Perrault do pirouettes as a result.

He said nice things to the Spanish gentleman and called for Captain Wyndham, to show this gentleman the feral dragons, who were lazily going about their practice maneuvers with the light company. It mostly seemed to Colonel Fitzwilliam to be a game of tag. But no matter; he was free at last. Colonel Fitzwilliam tucked his letter from Darcy in his waistcoat pocket and called for his horse.

Perrault was restive and Colonel Fitzwilliam gave him his head. They dashed madly from the camp. Colonel Fitzwilliam gloried in the speed, in the communication of motion and muscle that came with riding a horse one had trained for years. The camp blurred away as he galloped towards the river. Though it was getting onto the usual hour for Spanish siestas, he was surprisingly not overheated. A patch of cloud appeared to be following him. Although that did seem odd... he looked up and spotted Gherni flying above him.

“How’s tricks, old girl?” he called up.

At the word ‘trick,’ Gherni squealed at him.

“What?”

Gherni swooped down with an inquiring whistle, and dangled down the long leather strap Tharkay had invented, and which allowed Benwick and any member of the light company brave enough to jump from dragon to dragon... or from horseback to dragon....

“Well, this is a stupid idea,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, but did it anyways.

He stood up in the stirrups and grabbed onto the strap. Then he pulled himself up, freeing his boots from the stirrups and called out a, “Perrault, slow to stop!” Gherni chirruped her appreciation and pulled him up, until Colonel Fitzwilliam could swing a leg over her back. He tied strap around his waist, to better keep on Gherni's scaly back.

He was still not used to flying on his own and felt an instinctive sweep of terror, as the ground shrank beneath them. Perrault slowed , looking like a toy horse one might find in a box of tin soldiers. Gherni coasted on a gust of wind and chirruped at him.

“Too high,” he said, tightly.

Gherni nodded and then slowly descended, down to the surface of the Tormes River. There she glided, wings outspread. The breeze off the water was deliciously cool in the baking heat of the Iberian afternoon, and Colonel Fitzwilliam felt delight rise in him like a high tide. Here, there was only nature— no long lines of the injured and dead, only water and banks and trees, and the clear Spanish sky. His heart ached with the beauty of it, of rosy-fingered dawn (or orange-fingered afternoon) drawing back the curtains of cloud to reveal the sky was but another stage, another space for exploration.

Gherni knew now not to go too fast, and pulled her wings in slightly only so that they could fly underneath the Puente Mayor del Tormes, the old Roman bridge of Salamanca. When they emerged, they found a snoozing Wollstonecraft, sprawled out in the shallows, under the shade of a cork tree, and Laconia in the middle of the river, regally holding out a paw for a midshipman to scrub. Captains Bennet and Wentworth were sitting on Wollstonecraft’s back in their shirtsleeves, playing cards; their officers scattered on the banks and about the shallows.

“That is Fitz,” he distinctly heard Captain Bennet say. Captain Wentworth shaded his eyes with his cards.

Colonel Fitzwilliam, feeling foolish and stupid to have been caught out avoiding his responsibilities and going on pleasure jaunts, gave a meek wave. Then he realized he had been responsibly talking to the people of Salamanca while Captains Bennet and Wentworth played cards in the shade.  _They_ ought to be the embarassed ones. 

Gherni zoomed over, and found a spot on Wollstonecraft’s back.

“Fitz, you’re flying on your own!” Captain Bennet said delightedly.

“Gherni tempted me into doing a stupid trick,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, untangling himself. “You know I can’t resist those.”

“What trick?” she asked.

“I jumped from horseback to dragonback,” he said, and flushed up with delight at Captain Bennet’s look of impressed pleasure. “Is there any chance you can spare a midwingman? I left my horse on the other side of the bridge.”

Captain Bennet signaled to one, who slid down Wollstonecraft’s tail, splashed through the water onto the bank, and ran off. Gherni herself thought this a marvelous idea and slid down Wollstonecraft’s tail to loll about in the shallows, until Lieutenant Lucas took pity on her and directed a midwingman to scrub Gherni down.

“We were worried it was Benwick,” said Captain Wentworth, gathering up the cards and shuffling them together. “It’s Mrs. Benwick’s birthday next week and he’s decided to write her a poem. It’s an effort of about two weeks’ duration already.”

“Oh, er,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, running a hand through his windblown hair. “He... reads so much poetry, surely it will be easy for him?”

Captain Wentworth snorted. “So you would think. God. I love Benwick as a brother, but I think, in loving one’s brother, there is always a latent desire to strangle him by his own cravat. I have heard every single rhyme for the word ‘love’ in the English language.”

“And I all the rhymes for ‘Lydia,’” said Captain Bennet. “There aren’t many and all of them are forced. Come sit with us. We’re just playing piquet, but we can switch to commerce. We haven’t any stakes.”

He played distractedly, for Captain Bennet looked as pretty as she had after Cuidad Rodrigeo, as relaxed and at ease. He couldn’t help but remember her soft wish that it was always like this, and dissect such a statement to pieces. What did that mean? Was she referring to being with him? Was that too vain to think? And she was so close to him; when she discarded a card, her long queue of dark hair would spill over her shoulder and brush his own shirtsleeve. (He had left his uniform coat back at camp.) Colonel Fitzwilliam found himself paying far more attention to Captain Bennet than the game.

‘Careful Fitz,’ he thought to himself. ‘Aphrodite may not be your goddess, but Athena struck blind the men who dared raise their eyes to her in anything but supplication.’

Fortunately, Captains Bennet and Wentworth had grown up together and still squabbled like siblings when competing in card games. His own abysmal performance was lost in the tumult of debate and argument, and persistent and hilarious difficulty of counting to twenty-one.

He eventually excused himself to read his letter from Darcy, though, as soon as he’d done this, Captain Bennet thrust her cards at Captain Wentworth. “Not to pry Fitz, but who’s the letter from?”

“My cousin Darcy.”

“Oh, how is Miss Darcy’s dragon?” Then, to Wentworth, “Delicium, the courier with the broken leg.”

“I’ve been thinking,” said Wentworth, tucking the cards into the pocket of his abandoned jacket, “if Delicium can’t take off from the ground, perhaps he could take off from the water? Less weight on his leg that way, and he can still work up proper speed by swimming.”

“I’ll write and suggest that,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, scanning the letter. “They... ah. They commissioned a sort of brace for him.”

Captain Bennet flopped down beside him, her chin balanced on her hands. He felt terrifically distracted by her proximity, by the play of dappled light across her dark hair and tanned face and forearms, and white shirt and waistcoat. He stared at his letter without reading it.

“Not bad news, I hope?” Captain Wentworth said, gently.

“No,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, forcing himself to read. “No, it... hm.”

“Don’t leave us in suspense,” said Captain Bennet, raising herself up on her forearms, and giving Colonel Fitzwilliam an inadvertent glimpse down her décolletage.

“Well,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, turning hastily to the paper, “Darcy had some business with his lawyer, Knightley, and, as always seems to happen to Darcy, he got tangled up in someone else’s affairs. Some heiress related to his lawyer some way, whose father died recently, leaving her and her sister— who I'm know recalling is Mrs. Knightley, the lawyer’s wife— all sorts of trouble about land enclosure.”

“What?”

Though this probably just meant she was confused about all of Darcy’s lawyer’s relations, Colonel Fitzwilliam decided that now was the time for a very long digression on land enclosure. He went deeply into the reasons why his family’s particular sect of the Whig party was generally suspicious of it, how his uncle Pitt the Younger’s window tax meant to level out the amounts paid out by rich and poor had backfired into there just being fewer windows in England, and his father's very specific fear that people dispossessed by the enclosure of common lands would turn Jacobin and overthrow the British government, as had happened in France.

“What does this have to do with your cousin Darcy?” Captain Wentworth asked. 

“I don't think I said,” Colonel Fitzwilliam admitted. “So the lawyer’s wife, Mrs. Knightley and—” checking the letter “—her sister Miss Woodhouse jointly inherited their father's estate of Highbury. Their father's ill-health meant that he had not significantly improved his properties in three decades. Miss Woodhouse took the opportunity of Darcy's being present at her brother-in-law’s house, and of Darcy's being known as an excellent landlord, and one of the few to keep his properties intact during the French invasion, to ask his advice. Her first concern was improving the cottages of her tenants, especially since no significant improvements had occurred since the French left England. Mrs. Knightley had no opinion and was rather more occupied with one of her children having a cough. Mr. Knightley wanted to focus on enclosing the common land. His elder brother arrived later in the evening and pressed this view as well. Rather lectured Miss Woodhouse and insisted she didn't know what she was on about, especially as the Knightleys had enclosed their land in ‘01.”

“Mr. Darcy didn't enclose his land?” Captain Bennet asked, surprised.

“Not a great deal of it, no. Old Mr. Darcy was against it. And it's not like my cousin needs the additional income from it. He and _my_ father always spend a long time agreeing that it's unconscionable to do so now, given the privations suffered by the common people during the invasion.”

Captain Bennet frowned. “My father never enclosed the commons in Longbourn, but he is admittedly not the sort of man to concern himself with long-term planning or drastic renovations or improvements.”

They had attracted the attention of Lieutenant Lucas, who had been watching the midwingmen splashing about in the shallows, and said, “Colonel Fitzwilliam— who is the elder Mr. Knightley and why did he think it right to scold his sister-in-law’s sister?”

“The elder Knightley owns the estate next to Highbury. I believe the Knightleys grew up with the Misses Woodhouse, though they are both older— the elder Mr. Knightley is some seventeen or eighteen years older than Miss Woodhouse. It is apparently a habit with him to lecture and scold Miss Woodhouse.”

“Your cousin includes a sea of detail,” said Captain Bennet.

“Yes, he wanted my opinion on an idea he had formed about the whole situation.”

“I have a guess as to a detail you have not yet revealed to us,” said Lieutenant Lucas. “Is the elder Mr. Knightley inclined to offer for Miss Woodhouse?”

“Nothing seems to have been formalized,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, feeling he should not have been surprised that Lieutenant Lucas had so quickly cottoned onto Darcy’s theory. “But there seems to be some interest in that direction. And I suppose you also can guess at Darcy’s take on the situation—”

“That it is a land grab?” Lieutenant Lucas asked.

Captain Bennet looked a little surprised. “What do you mean, Charlotte?”

“I mean that the Knightley brothers mean to add Highbury to their own estate,” said Lieutenant Lucas, matter-of-factly. “And as Mrs. Knightley is one of them, they must focus their efforts and try to overrule Miss Woodhouse. I know only what you have said of the particulars but I must confess my sympathies are with Miss Woodhouse.”

Captain Wentworth had been listening to this with interest though without immediate comprehension and said, “Christ. And they think us savages. At least we have rules of war and adhere to them, and none of us attack orphans like that. I hope she didn’t give way to persuasion. That Miss Woodhouse, I mean.”

“No,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, looking at the letter again. “After dinner, she asked Darcy’s opinion on the necessity of enclosing one’s land, as he’s the only person in Derbyshire with a functioning estate— no small matter— and she went back to her family and very sweetly but very firmly said that she could not think of enclosing the land, which is, admittedly, an expensive proposition, until some necessary repairs had been made to the tenant cottages. Duty to the poor and whatnot.”

“Good,” said Captain Wentworth. “You know, ladies are rather too apt to give in at the slightest sign of trouble.”

“You know I’m your commanding officer, don’t you?” asked Captain Bennet, dryly.

“That’s... you’re different.”

She put a hand to her heart in mock offense. “What, I’m not a lady? I’ll have you know the Duke of Wellington tried to seduce me not two weeks ago, and he only goes after ladies.”

“You and your sisters are different,” protested Captain Wentworth. “Literal, in terms of Mrs. Benwick and probably your eldest sister— I only met her the once, and she didn’t strike me as the type to be moved when she thinks herself right— and figurative. No female aviator could ever be accused of being easily persuaded. Your characters aren’t as weak as some ladies I’ve met.”

“Because we were educated in logic,” said Captain Bennet. “Not many ladies are. God, I hate to hear you talking about women as if we’re all illogical, except for the very small subset of us likely to be dragon captains. I’m assigning you _A Vindication of the Rights of Women_. I’d better see you reading it or you’ll be fetching and carrying all through the next action.”

“It’s a good read,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “I found it very personally helpful.” Then, at Captain Wentworth’s puzzled look, he said, “I am co-guardian to my younger cousin, Miss Darcy. She’s really become much happier since I hired a tutor to give her lessons in philosophy. It’s her favorite subject.”

“No doubt you’re the reason she has a dragon as well,” said Captain Wentworth, amused.

Captain Bennet looked at Colonel Fitzwilliam as she hadn’t before, with a naked fondness that made hope bubble up wildly in his chest, like an uncorked champagne bottle. However, at that moment, Maestro Montoya and Fezzik came crashing into the shallows.

“We must leave for Ronda at once,” she said, gasping. “They’re hatching, all of them.”

Captain Bennet jumped to her feet. “What dragons are hatching? How many?”

“All of them,” said Maestro Montoya. “I don’t know how Lien did it, but she’s gotten every fire-breathing dragon egg in Andalusia to the hatching point. The French have been stealing steel because of all the harnesses they’ve had to make. We have to drive off the French before the eggs hatch and the fire-breakers all take on French captains. Better the dragons all become feral than they become part of the Armée de l'Aire.”

Within two days they were on the march, and within the week, they were attacked. In the green, forested mountains about Ronda, the French had been lying in wait. They rose up in a cloud, surrounding the entire division. All the courier weights went immediately after the harnesses of the heavyweights, biting and tearing. Then officers from the heavyweights jumped onto the English dragons, to hack at the straps hooking the dragon captains in. One particularly decorated fellow launched himself at Captain Bennet’s straps and hacked through them with an axe. Before Colonel Fitzwilliam could even pull his pistol, Lieutenant Too-Many-Medals was running at Captain Bennet, axe upraised. She ducked grabbing the end of her rapier and releasing it so that it hit Lieutenant-Too-Many-Medals on the wrist. He bellowed with pain and dropped his axe. Colonel Fitzwilliam drew one of his pistols and fired.

The shot grazed Lieutenant-Too-Many-Medals on the arm; he pitched forward, reaching first for Captain Bennet and trying to drag her along with him. She tried desperately to avoid him, to dodge him, to kick him away, but he clung to her.

“Get off, get _off_!” she cried.

Wollstonecraft heard this and twisted about with a roar; everyone latched onto what straps were closest, or trusted in their harnesses as they endured a barrel roll. The French were cleverer than the English, however— in the middle of this evasive maneuver, a middleweight rammed into Wollstonecraft’s belly. Captain Bennet kicked away Lieutenant Too-Many-Medals but went flying off herself.

She managed to grasp the gold chain about Wollstonecraft’s collar with her left arm (she still held her sword in her right) but a Flamme-de-gloire shot a jet of flame at them. The gold chain would soon grow too hot to hold— or Captain Bennet’s coat would prove insufficient against the heat—

Wollstonecraft did not notice, too busy twisting away from the flame— the ferals were too far distant— Lieutenant Lucas crying out orders— Colonel Fitzwilliam tried to lurch forward to let someone know what had happened but a French officer cut through his strap and Colonel Fitzwilliam went tumbling along Wollstonecraft’s scaly flank— someone reached for him— Wollstonecraft gave a writhing twist, roaring out in pain as Poux-de-Ciels attacked her wings— Colonel Fitzwilliam caught onto the lashing tail but the trees seemed to rise up to him—

Colonel Fitzwilliam threw himself forward, hooking onto the last thick rings of chainmail by the base of Wollstonecraft’s rail.

Aviators fell in all directions, trailing after the dragons like the tails of comets, parachutes sprouting up as if the sky had a sudden infestation of mushrooms. Several figures tumbled as falling angels, with nothing more than the outspread tails of their coats to keep them aloft. One of those figures was—

“Captain Bennet!”

She was tumbling towards him, coat smoking a little from the Flamme-de-gloire attack— she was close enough for him to catch her or would be if he let go and pushed off—

The fear of falling to his death was a difficult one to get over but it occurred to him that he never went aloft on a long flight without a parachute, and Captain Bennet never went aloft with one. He unhooked himself, took a breath, and leapt for Captain Bennet. “Bennet!” He called, as one of Wollstonecraft's wings blocked the French from view. “Grab on!”

She tossed aside her sword and reached down to him— her gloved fingertips brushed his own— he seized her left wrist— she latched onto him and, grimacing, pulled herself closer by sheer arm strength alone. “Pull your chute!” she gasped.

He did so, just as Wollstonecraft gave a roar of pain and abruptly zoomed upwards, away from the Flamme-de-gloires roasting her sensitive wing membranes.

It was done almost too late; they crashed immediately through the tops of the trees. Their fall was slowed not so much by the parachute, as by the tree branches tearing at the parachute. Colonel Fitzwilliam kept as firm a grip as he could on Captain Bennet’s left wrist; she hugged tightly onto his waist with her right arm. At last they stopped, perhaps five feet from the ground.

“Pray let go,” said Captain Bennet, voice shaking. “I can land.”

He did so, and she dropped down as neatly as a cat, though she was holding her left arm awkwardly. Captain Bennet looked about and said, “It’s deserted. Cut yourself down. I think— oh.” Her knees buckled under her and she sat heavily on the ground. “Sorry Fitz. I need to sit a minute. My shoulder got mucked up somehow and my head's swimming.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam unbuckled his straps and carefully lowered himself down. He glanced up through the hole they had made in the canopy and could not see anything but white clouds drifting serenely by. The noise of battle grew ever more distant.

‘Clever tactic,’ he thought. ‘Separate dragon from captain, drive off the dragon.’ There seemed to be no one about, but he pulled his loaded pistol from its holster and looked around anyhow. When he was satisfied he holstered it and crouched down by Captain Bennet. She had her head between her knees and was breathing in the labored way of someone trying very much not to mind the pain they were in.

“We should be safe for now. Which shoulder’s injured, Bennet?”

“The left,” she said, in a thin, watery voice. “I think it's dislocated, Fitz. It hurt like the very devil when I put my arms about my knees. Can you take a look at it?”

He carefully pulled the smoking coat from her shoulders, tormented by her cry of pain, and eased it down her arms. Thanks to all the layers of her uniform, she was not burnt, but it was clear her shoulder had been badly injured when she fell from the harness. Even a very light, gentle touch, to ascertain the severity of the damage caused her to cry out again.

“I've got you,” he said, quietly, soothingly, putting a hand to her uninjured shoulder, as he had always done to any injured man for whom he suddenly found himself responsible. That it was Captain Bennet this time stabbed at him like a bayonet. The shock of seeing her go white with pain was painful beyond all description. “I've got you Bennet, I’ve got you.”

She was crying and evidently ashamed to be caught doing so; she tried to wipe away tears with her right hand and choked out something about being sorry.

“Bennet, I don't think your left shoulder is actually dislocated but it is close to it,” he replied. “I'd be shocked if you weren't crying.” When he got out his flask of brandy he noticed his hands were shaking. “Here, have a little of this to steady your nerves. Brandy de jerez. Nothing to French brandy, I know, but quite potable.”

“Posh under any circumstance, aren't you?” she got out, though her voice was low and trembling and tears streamed unchecked down her cheeks.

“It is unavoidable, I fear.” He turned his attention back to her shoulder. “Can you still feel your left arm?”

“Yes.” She managed to move her fingers without pain, and to raise and lower her forearm from the elbow, but anything more made the tears start to her eyes and curses spring to her lips.

“Have some more of the brandy, Bennet.”

“I think,” she said, lowering the flask from her lips, “I shall have to make do with a sling until we can find a doctor.”

“I will help however I can, if you will direct me.” He was already pulling at the knot in his neckcloth. At her direction, Colonel Fitzwilliam looped it gently about her right shoulder, and tied the two ends together roughly at elbow height.

He did, however, hesitate a little when she asked him to help move her arm into it. “Are you sure you can— Bennet, you looked dreadful when I took off your flying leathers.”

“I will look much worse with my arm hanging loose and dragging the bone from the socket entirely,” she replied.

“Bit of an exaggeration there.”

“It feels like that's what's happened,” she said peevishly. “If we're going to prevent this exact scenario— I am sorry to ask it of you, but will you be so good as to put your hand to my shoulder, to make sure my arm stays in its socket?”

There was no arguing with that. Though he hated knowing he was causing her pain, Colonel Fitzwilliam felt something click into place, as he helped gently guide her elbow into the sling.

“That sounded promising,” he said encouragingly.

Captain Bennet said, in a tone of almost offended incredulity, “I think I might faint.”

“Just lean against me for a moment then. I've got you.” Colonel Fitzwilliam gave into thoroughly unprofessional behavior and gently put his arms around her waist, and tucked her head against his own shoulder, holding her tightly until the first wave of pain and dizziness had ebbed. “God Bennet, I'm sorry. We shall get a proper doctor to look at that for you, or, better yet, Mrs. Harville. She’s the closest equivalent to a country bonesetter in these parts, I think.”

“At least I shan't be sick on you,” said Captain Bennet. “I console myself with that, though I feel a damned fool at present.”

“I wish you would give over thinking there is anything that could cause me to think ill of you, Bennet,” he replied, still holding tight. “I'm so relieved I didn't see you fall to your death I wouldn't even mind if you were sick all over me.”

“Sometimes you are _irritatingly_ gentlemanly,” said Captain Bennet, with a noise he chose to interpret as a laugh.

They sat there for some minutes until her breathing grew less labored; but even then she cursed and said, “The pain’s no different but at least I'm used to it now. We ought to move.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam felt a stab of alarm at this. “Bennet, don't you think it better to stay put? The division will find us if we are in one spot— and you were near to fainting only five minutes ago.”

“The French will find us first,” said Captain Bennet, though she remained heavy and motionless against his shoulder. “We haven't any troops on the ground here, do we?”

“No,” he admitted. “My regiment’s... God knows where my regiment is after this attack.”

“God,” said Captain Bennet. “You're alright, aren't you?”

“Bit scraped up, but not much worse than I usually am. I—” he paused; a familiar noise, growing louder— horses. He glanced around their part of the forest, the incline on which they were huddled, his parachute still hanging from the tree branches. He hadn't time to take this down or hide it— they scarcely had time to hide themselves— Colonel Fitzwilliam looked desperately around. There were riders on horses, on the little mountain track some twenty feet below them.

“I'm damned sorry Bennet, but I'm going to have to drag you into the bushes here.”

She raised her head, looked at the bushes, and set her jaw. “I can go that far. You load your other pistol.”


	5. In which Colonel Fitzwilliam and Captain Bennet meet Comandante Teresa

Captain Bennet did make it to the bushes, though she had to lay down once she did. Her green coat blended in well enough with the leaves, thank God; there was no need to try and pile things on her. Colonel Fitzwilliam followed after and flattened himself to the ground beside her, feeling grateful for the drab overcoat he had taken to wearing on flights. He blended in well to the dirt. There was a low gap in the bushes, through which he could keep an eye on the road. To his surprise a motley band of riders appeared: women attired as peasants, or in trousers, bristling with guns and belts full of cartridges, and riding what seemed to be purebred Andalusians.

Colonel Fitzwilliam glanced over at Captain Bennet in confusion, but she had her eyes squeezed shut against the pain she felt, and was insensible to anything but that.

These modern day Amazons had seen his parachute and paused to dismount. The one in front, who carried pistols instead of a musket, tugged experimentally on the parachute.

In Spanish, she asked, “Manuela, is this French or British?”

“French,” said Manuela. She had taken off one of her riding gloves and was feeling the silk between her fingers. “But that hardly means anything. The British pick up what the French leave. Nearly every British soldier I see has a French oxhide pack strapped to his back.”

This was very true; Colonel Fitzwilliam, with all his good contacts among the quartermasters, always asked for, and always received one of the parachutes confiscated from French aviators. Their aerial safety technology was much more advanced than anything England had developed. 

The head Amazon turned to an older woman still ahorse. “Could you see who fell in the battle above?”

“Both sides lost men with parachutes. There’s a trail of them from here to Ronda.”

Captain Bennet turned her head to look at him. “Partisans?” she mouthed.

Colonel Fitzwilliam hesitated, unsure if he should risk revealing himself, but fortunately one of the women spat on the ground and said, “I hope it's a Frenchman! It's been days since I last bloodied my knife.”

“Charming,” muttered Colonel Fitzwilliam. He lowered his pistol and fumbled in his pocket for his handkerchief. Captain Bennet extended her uninjured arm and gently twisted a stick from the leafy branches above them. She passed this over. He propped himself up on his elbows and tied the handkerchief to the stick and thrust the whole out of the gap in the bushes.

He began waving it and called out, in Spanish, “Do not shoot! We are allies!”

“Names and ranks!” called the head Amazon.

“Elizabeth Bennet, captain of His Majesty’s Dragon Wollstonecraft, Mixed Model Division.”

“Richard William Fitzwilliam, colonel of infantry, also of the Mixed Model Division. At your service, madame!”

“I am Comandante Teresa,” said the lead Amazon, in remarkably good English. “These are my partisans, or what is left of them.You may come out. We will render you what assistance you need.”

It was much harder to get out than it had been to get in, especially since the frenetic energy of battle had faded and Captain Bennet was about at the end of her strength. Comandante Teresa offered Captain Bennet a hand up herself and looked curiously at Captain Bennet’s coat. “I would have thought you the mistress of a rifleman, in such a coat.”

“I am my own mistress, Comandante,” said Captain Bennet, forcing a smile. She was terribly pale and did not look as if her legs would hold her up much longer. “I can, with all honesty, say I take orders from no man. I am the head of my division. My only commanding officer is Admiral Jane Roland.”

“Do you know the 95th Rifles?” Comandante Teresa asked, faux-casually.

“Er, sort of. There's an odd company of them stuck in with the South Essex.”

“Do you know a Captain Sharpe? If he is well?”

Captain Bennet smiled, though that might have been because Colonel Fitzwilliam had deftly angled himself behind her, a hand under the elbow of her good arm, and so she could lean fully against him while appearing only to shift her weight. “My commanding officer has a more intimate acquaintance with him, but I saw Captain Sharpe a little over two weeks ago, drilling a bunch of new recruits by shouting, ‘Come on you bastards!’ at random intervals.”

“That sounds like him,” said Comandante Teresa, with satisfaction.

“Ah,” said Captain Bennet, “then I think you must be the guerilla they call La Aguja.”

“The Needle?” translated Colonel Fitzwilliam, a little puzzled.

Comandante Teresa pulled a stiletto from the top of her boot. “This is my needle.”

“Ah,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, eying the very sharp edge of the knife. “All becomes clear. I suppose you do a great deal of fancy work with that.”

She laughed. “I have become a skilled needlewoman, that is true.”

Captain Bennet asked, “Is there any chance you have a doctor with you? I have possibly dislocated my shoulder, and Colonel Fitzwilliam has reached the end of his skill.”

“Not that I had much to begin with,” he added, feeling rather depressed.

“Isabella was a midwife,” said Comandante Teresa. “Now she is the closest we have to a surgeon.” Isabella managed to diagnose Elizabeth’s shoulder as a bad sprain, merely, and fixed Colonel Fitzwilliam’s attempt at a sling. Isabella lamented a lack of ice but promised herbs and a little laudanum back at their camp.

“It is best you come spend the night with us,” said Comandante Teresa. “We are well hidden. In the morning, we will see what the French are up to, and see how best to return you to your division.”

Captain Bennet did not actually faint when asked to ride there, but she looked pale and mumbled something vague about the jolting hurting her worse than walking might.

“The French will hurt you worst of all,” said Comandante Teresa.

Captain Bennet grimaced, but, after downing half of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s flask, grew resigned to the idea.

“If you ride with me, Bennet, you won't have to try to use the reins one-handed,” Colonel Fitzwilliam offered, brushing dirt and twigs off his uniform.

“Oh thank God,” she said, tension vanishing from her shoulders. She seized the pommel of the Andalusian and attempted to heave herself up one-handed, a feat made supremely difficult when one had no hand-to-eye coordination. The horse stamped in annoyance and moved away.

Captain Bennet fell off and onto her backside.

“Right then Bennet,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Why don't I lift you? The incline should make it easy. Stand up— there, I'll just put my hands on your waist— hup!” He lifted her up and onto the horse but couldn't quite help his grunt and a, “Oof. You look much lighter than you are.”

She drunkenly flexed her right bicep. “I'm solid muscle, Fitz. Feel.”

“Another time,” he said, voice unsteady with laughter. “You're a lightweight, Bennet. I never knew.”

“In the boxing ring?”

“In the bottle, my dear. Half a flask and you're down for the count, or nearly. Just hold on, I need to climb on after you.”

It felt odd to ride with someone seated before him— and especially someone seated very nearly on his lap, drunkenly leaning her head against his chest. His arms continually brushed against the side of her waist. The fact that this was Captain Elizabeth Bennet, who had caught his fancy so much both Marjorie the viscountess Stornoway and Lieutenant Lucas had seen fit to drop him a little hint, made the whole experience an exquisite torment. Captain Bennet had fallen into an exhausted, brandy-induced sleep against his chest by the time they reached the guerilla camp. Despite the danger, the horrible experience of falling off a dragon, his own hurts, his own uncertainty if they would actually rejoin their division, Colonel Fitzwilliam would not have changed positions with the Prince Regent at that moment.

“We are here,” said Comandante Teresa.

“Bennet,” Colonel Fitzwilliam whispered, reining in his horse. “Bennet, my dear. Time to wake up.”

She stirred against him, drowsily attempting to open her eyes. Captain Bennet had remarkably fine eyelashes. This was a stupid thing to be charmed by, but he was and it was difficult to resist the impulse to kiss her forehead, as he used to do when waking the young widow with whom he'd passed most of his nights in India. “Just sit up Bennet. I'll help you off once I've dismounted.”

She grumpily sat up and saluted.

Colonel Fitzwilliam swung himself off and then put his hands to Captain Bennet’s waist. “One leg over, my dear— yes, put your arms— arm around my neck— there you go.”

Captain Bennet leaned against his shoulder heavily, her hair pleasantly sun-warmed where it brushed the underside of his chin. She said, “Oh fuck. I’m terribly drunk. Got the spins and everything. Where’s Charlotte?”

“Probably aloft. But I’m here, what do you need?”

“Oh good,” she said, swaying vaguely upright. “Charlotte— I love Charlotte! The best lieutenant in the entire bloody corps!— she would make me drink water when all I want is a lie down.”

“Sorry to say it Bennet, but I’m going to make you drink water _and_ eat something _and_ have a poultice put on that shoulder. I’m much more tyrannical than Charlotte.”

Captain Bennet laughed at that and tried to put her right arm about his shoulders, before saying, “No, too tall. You are far too tall. That’s your only flaw. Aside from the fact your mother calls you Fitzbilly. That’s just _silly._ ”

“Why don’t I put my arm over your shoulders to steer you? There we go.” He was always terribly amused by the state of expansive bonhomie Captain Bennet fell into while in her cups. Her natural merriment increased and though it most often blossomed into delighted praise of her intimates, she had also a tendency to begin brightly complimenting strangers. She began doing so with the guerillas at once, in a not always coherent mix of Spanish and English, flavored randomly with Portuguese.

Colonel Fitzwilliam gently settled Captain Bennet by the fire and was directed towards the proper places to relieve himself and to wash up a little. He took a moment to take stock of his own injuries, which were not bad, and to look through his pockets. Once a quartermaster, always a quartermaster, he thought, idly. In addition to his pistols, cartridges, and sword, he had his memorandum book and pencil, his phrasebook (with a uselessly large map of Spain in it), about eight pounds in Spanish gold as well as two English guineas, his empty flask, and a Gothic novel he was not very much enjoying but was attempting to get through because his good friend Henry Tilney had sent it on.

The long, slow descriptions of the South of France circa the Renaissance were soothing rather than dull now, and it would at least be of use to Captain Bennet. She was a voracious reader in the evenings— and once she had sobered up, Colonel Fitzwilliam thought she might be in a state where her naturally lively, quick mind would be in great need of distraction.

When he returned, Captain Bennet and the female guerillas were fast friends, and the men of the camp warming to her. They were discussing the merits of the Baker rifle over the common musket, and involved in a long discussion of the fastest method to load. He was appealed to, for the guerillas had heard that the English regiments were all capable of firing three rounds a minute and did not see how this could be accomplished. Colonel Fitzwilliam was happy to explain this was not, in fact easy to accomplish. A very skilled rifleman usually averaged two rounds a minute on a good day. The ensuing discussion of guns and technique over dinner— camp bread and a stew of mostly root vegetables, served in rough wooden bowls about the fire— was extremely interesting.

Comandante Teresa was not present. He attempted to bring attention to this fact, but was deftly steered away from it.

When the sun had set, and Isabella the former midwife had checked Captain Bennet’s shoulder a final time that day, Comandante Teresa returned.  

“The French know Captain Bennet is lost,” said Teresa, without introduction or ceremony. “We have contacts among the French laundresses.”

“Laundresses?” asked Captain Bennet.

Manuela grinned. “Well, they buy soap from me. What services the women actually are paid for, I would not venture to speculate.” She was dressed as a traveling merchant, and had a donkey with empty panniers behind her. “But they all told me that they are settled in Tejares for now— that is the nearest town— while their husbands, shall we say, all are looking for some missing dragon captains. They do not expect to be there long, and they are all very hopeful.”

“Captains?” asked Colonel Fitzwilliam.

“It is known a Captain Elizabeth Bennet, of the Longwing Wollstonecraft, was shot down. Fortunately they think you have only one eye. That is a help.”

“One eye?” Isabella said, baffled.

“Oh,” said Captain Bennet. “It’s a stupid thing, from when I was going about in London. I had a black eye, so I wore an eyepatch whenever I was about in society. Now there isn’t a drawing or cartoon or anything of me that _doesn’t_ have an eyepatch. What about the rest of the division?”

“Captain Wentworth of the dragon Laconia was also separated from his crew, but they had yet to capture him either. They had some English officers as captives, but no other dragon captains. A Captain Wyndham was the highest ranking Englishman.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam shook his head. “God, poor Wyndham. He’s captain of my light company. Do they know I'm missing as well?”

"No," said Manuela. 

"That's a help," said Colonel Fitzwilliam. "Things might not be so bad."

“No, the French are offering truly ridiculous rewards for information about Captain Bennet and Captain Wentworth,” said Comandante Teresa. "Things are bad."

"Ah," said Colonel Fitzwilliam.

“If I am brought in, that’s one less Longwing,” said Captain Bennet, “and there are only four in the entire Corps at present. The division would have to be withdrawn and redone— hm. I hope I am worth at least two... no, four thousand francs.”

"You underestimate your worth," said Comandante Teresa. "If they destroy the most effective enemy regiment in Spain, they can turn their attention to the Russian front with impunity. Spain will easily be theirs. And consider too, that General Wellington is the only military commander to have beaten Napoleon. It is worth a great deal to the Little Corporal to be able to demoralize Wellington, and to win against him."

"How much is the reward then?" Captain Bennet asked. 

"For information? Ten thousand francs. For you? A hundred thousand."

Colonel Fitzwilliam blinked.

Several other guerillas murmured to each other, utterly astonished.

Captain Bennet gaped at Comandante Teresa. “Good God, that much? I don't believe it. I hope they draw up posters. I can't... I need to see such an amount with my own two eyes, which is one more eye than the French think I have. Do you think they'd offer more if they realized I had both my eyes?" Then, after Colonel Fitzwilliam realized she was still drunk, and made her drink some water, Captain Bennet said wistfully, "I hope there are posters. I should dearly like to send one home to my father.”

“We will need to get you out of this part of Spain, back towards the bulk of the British army,” said Comandante Teresa. She moved aside some baskets and blankets, and smoothed out a patch of dust with the toe of her boot. With the tip of her sword, she drew several waving mountains and a river and said, “This is the El Tajo canyon. You are here.” She drew a little circle in roughly the middle of the river, towards the right. “The Guadalevin River is too low to sail, and the canyon too deep to cross on foot or on horseback. Here is the nearest bridge.” She drew a line over the river. “It is in the city of Ronda.” She drew a large circle on the left side of the bridge, and a smaller one on the right. “Old town, new town. Ronda is in the opposite direction of the French, and full of our fellows and partisans.”

“No longer a full city,” sighed Manuela. “There were fifteen thousand of us in Ronda, now there is only a third that number.”

“It is the safest place for you to go,” said Comandante Teresa. “We shall have to abandon our camp soon; the French will come looking around here. And there will be doctors in Ronda, to see to Captain Bennet’s shoulder.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam glanced at Captain Bennet, and said, “Should we set off this evening?”

Comandante Teresa shook her head. “No, at daybreak. There are multiple Fleur-de-nuits being diverted to this part of Spain. They can see at night and will be looking for any movement at all. They will stop any riders they see. The safest thing to do is to stay hidden in the deepest part of the forest, where we are, and then to go quickly into the city tomorrow morning. We are three hours by horse, to Ronda, not including stops to water the horses; and we have organized a diversion with some other bands in the area.” She offered them a wry smile. “You British have your uses. We have an excuse to meet all together, to pool our knowledge.”

“We are always glad to be of any service to our allies,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, politely.

“I forewarn you, we shall need to disguise ourselves,” said Comandante Teresa.

Colonel Fitzwilliam felt a twinge of displeasure. He was not good at appearing anything other than he was, which was a British officer and a gentleman. That and he was quite fond of the uniform he was wearing; it was one of his better everyday uniforms. But he admitted the necessity of this. “Redcoats and greencoats are probably thin on the ground at present. I do warn you that this is about as good as my Spanish gets; there is really no hope for passing me off as a native.”

“Hopefully you will not need to speak,” said Teresa. “You will pretend to be Isabella’s son tomorrow, and Isabella is the sort of woman men expect to talk. And we shall be in such circumstances that the French will not expect you to say much, should we run into them. We are all going to attend a false wedding breakfast tomorrow, at the inn in the Old Town of Ronda.”

“Oh how clever,” said Captain Bennet, beaming. “I love a clever maneouver. No one would question a large, seemingly unconnected group of people at a wedding breakfast; and no one will notice a couple of guests among such a multitude.”

This was agreed to, and everyone began to break down the camp.

“Here Fitz,” said Captain Bennet, in the unquiet whisper of the drunk, as everyone settled down for the evening. “You’re right here next to me; I chose a spot where there are some pine needles, so the blankets do not smell quite so overpoweringly of horse.”

He was returning from the latrines and halted, looking about the camp. He was not sure what he had expected, the men and women to separate on opposite sides of the fire perhaps— but, with the exception of those appointed as guards and those watching the horses, all the men and women seemed to drop down where they could, as close to the smoldering embers of the banked campfire as possible. No one said anything about this gross impropriety. Indeed, they all seemed to expect him to lay down next to Captain Bennet.

Colonel Fitzwilliam tugged at his gorget. “I, ah—”

“This way,” said Captain Bennet, helpfully. “I know it’s dark.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam picked his way over to her and thought, ‘well, how improper is it when there’s twenty other people about?’ and laid out his blanket. After a moment, he said, “Bennet, here, get on this. It’ll hurt your shoulder less than laying on the ground. I’ll wrap myself up in my greatcoat.”

“How much space d’you think I take up?” she asked, rather indignantly. “Lay down next to me, you numpty. I’ll wrap myself up in this carriage rug so I don’t move, if _that's_ what you're worried about.”

It seemed stupid but he muttered something about the impropriety.

“Fitz,” said Captain Bennet, in a mix of fondness and exasperation, “dear, posh old boy— did it occur to you that a female dragon captain may not have the same standards of propriety while in the field that a lady might in similar circumstances?”

He stammered out something, he knew not what, and she snorted and said, “Come lay down. There's a good chap.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam sat down on the blanket next to her, and passed her his flask, newly filled with water. “I took it from the stream nearby. Drink up Bennet, or you’ll have a hell of a hangover tomorrow.”

“What a good fellow you are,” Captain Bennet said, doing so, and then fondly butting her head against his shoulder, as he had often seen her do with Lieutenant Lucas. “Fiiiitz. Fitz, dear Fitz.”

He could scarce keep from laughing. “Yes, my dear Bennet?”

“You’re top-drawer, you really are.”

“Thank you Bennet. It was only water, though.”

“Not just that, but you’ve been so bang-up about all these beastly circs,” she said, attempting a posh accent, with limited success. “Positively top of the trees, old sport!”

He realized she was trying to make him more comfortable with the impropriety of sleeping next to her, reminding him she was a friend and fellow officer— and indeed, he’d often dropped down next to Lawford or Gowing in India, without much thought; it was only in England that his rank became high enough people made efforts to always find him a camp bed— but he found it difficult to forget Captain Bennet was a woman, and whom he found distractingly attractive. The dim light of the fire penetrated the thin muslin of her shirt, revealing the outline of her stays, and he was very conscious of the fact that if he looked down, he would see her breasts. He glanced around at where everyone else was chatting quietly, or laid out to sleep, and managed a jovial, “You're a brick, Bennet.”

“I’m a little drunk—”

“You astonish me!”

“—well! You get so chatty when you drink, you cannot censure me for getting full up with love for my fellow men and needing to express it.” She pulled back a little to look balefully at him, and then said, “Fitz, I don't mean to make you uncomfortable, it’s just—” a giggle escaped her, and she said, voice trembling with laughter, “as Admiral Roland put it, all that honor guff has addled your wits. Do you really trust yourself so little you think you’d fall upon me in a fury of passion in front of twenty easily startled and well-armed partisans? Or that I wouldn’t knee you where it hurts if you did? For God’s sake, Fitz, you blushed for quite five minutes and had to get drunk before you could tell me your officers had a problem with Captain Wentworth’s shirtsleeves. Have a little faith in yourself.”

Put that way, it was ridiculous. Colonel Fitzwilliam grumbled but gave in. He wrapped himself up in his greatcoat and laid back. He kept his eyes resolutely fixed on the canopy above. It wasn’t so much that, or, he realized, even that he knew in his well-bred (slightly inbred) soul that a gentleman did not share any sort of sleeping space with a lady not his wife (which didn’t even hold up; he’d had mistresses)— it was only that he feared he would enjoy sleeping next to her enough that it would pain him when it was no longer possible. ‘Stupid,’ Colonel Fitzwilliam thought, a little disgusted with himself. ‘You are a besotted, sentimental fool these days.’

Captain Bennet laid down beside him, bundled tightly in an old carriage rug, and was asleep almost instantly. After about five minutes, she rolled towards him, and tucked herself neatly into his side. Colonel Fitzwilliam put an arm about her shoulders automatically. Captain Bennet made a soft noise in her sleep and she moved to rest her head against his shoulder. A warm feeling of tired contentment began to flow through him, driving away strain and anxiety.

Captain Bennet’s hair was still warm where it tickled his chin, and though he could not quiet his mind enough to fall asleep, he began to feel the tension drain from him as he held her. She was warm and solid against his right side, her breathing even and soothing. When the air was full of snores and the sound of crickets and cicadas embarking upon their nightly gossip, she began to move in her sleep, and then woke with a start.

Colonel Fitzwilliam did not know quite what to say. “Alright Bennet?”

“Nightmare,” she said, sleepily.

“I get ‘em too. I don’t know why, but it’s the Peaks that I always revisit. I’ve been in worse battles, but that’s the one that lingers, and it’s always the one where I’m running about in the smoke with no clothes on.”

“Not really a battle,” she said, yawning, “so much as the aftermath of one... for me, that is. I’m never quite in time to reach Aunt Bess during the invasion and then England falls to the French and Wollstonecraft is shot.” She took in their position and pulled at the carriage rug, so that it covered both of them, before resting her head on his shoulder once again. “You don’t mind, do you, Fitz?” she mumbled sleepily.

“No,” he said, softly.

“Much more comfortable than the ground,” she said. Her left arm was still bound up in a sling but she held tightly onto the part of his greatcoat nearest her before saying, softly, “You take such care of me, Fitz. I don't know if I thanked you for it yet.”

“My dear Bennet, you can't ride a horse sober and with the use of both arms. I wasn't about to let you try now.”

“Not just that,” she objected sleepily. “It's everything really. I... God Fitz, it sounds very stupid and sentimental, but I should be literally dead without you.”

"That's just a statement of fact. I can say the exact same thing to you, in perfect honesty."

After a moment Captain Bennet burrowed into his side and said, "Well, I  _meant_ it to be very stupid and sentimental. I'm... I'm terribly fond of you. I hold you higher in my esteem than anyone else I know."

"Thank you," said Colonel Fitzwilliam, not sure what to do with this information. "You know, I have never met anyone like you. Bennet, you've... you've really opened my eyes to the world. There's no one I admire more."

Captain Bennet made a tired, contented noise. "These are beastly circs, but I'm glad to be facing them with you."

"Likewise. Go to sleep Bennet.”

She yawned and did so.

He did not usually sleep on his back and tried to turn on his side. Captain Bennet burrowed closer, and he wrapped both arms about her. Her steady, even breathing, the weight and warmth of her, lulled him out of the state of heightened awareness that was sometimes difficult to shake after a battle. The thought, ‘We are alive,’ wound through his mind in drowsy repetitions, until at long last, he slept.


	6. In which Colonel Fitzwilliam and Captain Bennet are fake married

Colonel Fitzwilliam was an unfortunately light sleeper and woke when his mind began to recognize the sounds of a camp getting ready to march. Like a sentimental fool, he did not immediately rise, but pretended to still be asleep, so as to have five more minutes holding tight to Captain Bennet. He was surprised his right arm wasn't asleep, for she hadn't moved since the second time she'd dropped off. She was still lightly clutching his greatcoat, her face buried against his shoulder. Without her coat (which she had folded up to use for a pillow), wrapped up in a blanket, her hair falling loosely out of its usual queue, one could almost forget she was an aerial officer.

He wondered if, in the ordinary course of things, and Captain Bennet had been instead Miss Elizabeth, second daughter of Mr. Bennet of Longbourn, she would be married by now. She was certainly pretty and charming enough to be married early. But so much of what he admired about Captain Bennet was tied into her life of service, her time in the corps— this fictional Miss Bennet, a pale, confined creature in white muslin, disappeared from his mind’s eye like mist evaporating. The reality was much better.

The people nearest them began to stir. Out of a habit Colonel Fitzwilliam had not realized he still had, he kissed Captain Bennet on the forehead and gently untangled himself from her. It was only when he had reached the river he realized what he had done, and groaned.

‘Great job, Fitz,’ he told himself. ‘Absolutely splendid! Pray God she was asleep and didn't notice.’

When he returned from his ablutions, she was still asleep— thank heavens for small mercies— and didn't wake until Colonel Fitzwilliam held a cup of coffee under her nose.

“Bennet, up and at ‘em. Orders to march.”

These magic words did the trick. Captain Bennet immediately unrolled herself, took the coffee, and was ambulatory within seconds. When she began to head towards the stream, uniform coat and waistcoat over her arm, Isabella the midwife stopped her.

“The shoulder aches but not as badly as yesterday,” she said, in Spanish, in response to Isabella’s searching look.

“Not that,” said Isabella absently. “I am making sure the costume we have will fit you.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam turned to see Comandante Teresa dressed in a white blouse and a long pleated skirt of black homespun, prettily embroidered at the hem, pinning up her long braid up on the top of her head. She gestured at him with her chin and said, “Over here, Colonel....” she struggled a moment.

“Just call me Fitz,” he said.

“Good. Jorge found clothes that will fit you.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam sadly watched as Jorge bore off his red uniform coat. His waistcoat went with it, and his cravat was swapped for a large handkerchief. He completed the ensemble with rather a shoddy waistcoat of yellowing linen that had once been white, a very ill-fitting blue coat he elected to carry rather than wear, and a broad-brimmed black peasant's hat.

“I feel like a stablehand, and not a particularly good one,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam.

“They will not look twice at a low paid servant,” said Comandante Teresa.

Colonel Fitzwilliam, rubbing at his stubbled chin, asked, “I suppose that’s true but if Captain Wentworth’s missing... that is, I don’t look anything like the chap, but wouldn’t they be on the lookout for any Englishman?”

“Which is why,” said Comandante Teresa, pointing to Isabella, “you will say ,’yes mother,’ and ‘no, mother’ to Isabella, and nothing else.”

“Fair enough,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Are you sure they aren’t looking for me? I fell from dragonback, just as Captain Bennet did.”

“No,” said Comandante Teresa. “But they are not offering money for information on you; and the English regiment seems to have gone out of the area very soon after you were seperated from them. This suggests to me that they did not notice you were gone, during the battle, and had no reason to doubt their first impressions.”

“Very true,” Colonel Fitzwilliam agreed. “And now that I think about it, Wollstonecraft’s wings were outspread when Captain Bennet fell. The French wouldn’t have seen me leaping for her... and we were so close to the trees, they wouldn’t have necessarily seen my parachute or my fall. That might be to our advantage.”

”Yes— and we have put Captain Bennet in a dress and a veil— that will help as well.”

Captain Bennet emerged from the forest, looking utterly bewildered and almost unfairly pretty. She was in a cream-colored muslin gown, with a wine-colored shawl and one of those lace kerchiefs Spanish ladies wore over their heads in the lieu of bonnets. Colonel Fitzwilliam tried hard not to stare. He did not succeed.

The muslin was fashionably fine and not only beguilingly revealed the outline of Captain Bennet’s undergarments, but glowed against her tanned skin. The veil floated prettily about face and shoulders, contrasting very elegantly with her dark hair; and the red of her shawl, which reminded Colonel Fitzwilliam of the ports they’d used to toast at victory dinners, brought out the gold of her complexion, so that she looked even lovelier and more blooming than she usually did. The complexion of an average Spanish lady tended to be darker than that of an Englishwoman’s; it only made sense that their national costume would suit Captain Bennet. It was perfectly rational that she should be lovely; there was no need to feel so stunned by it.

But still, he was.

Captain Bennet caught him looking and colored rosily. “I suppose I do look rather ridiculous—“

“No, Bennet, not at all!” he said, a little too quickly. “You look lovely. I’m just not used to seeing you in a dress.”

“Didn’t recognize me, eh?”

He would recognize her anywhere: but this couldn’t be said aloud. Even if they had been alone, he would not have known how to go about confessing it, and all the carefully hidden feelings that attended such a statement.

“You look a bit of alright,” said Captain Bennet, a little shyly.

“Just the bit,” he joked. “Comandante Teresa has me as some kind of stablehand.”

While they had been taking, Comandante Teresa had been talking to her compatriots. She turned to them and said, “How is your shoulder Captain Bennet?”

“Sore,” she admitted. “Thank God this shawl is so wide; it hides the sling.”

“So you cannot ride,” she mused. “That may be to our advantage. I have an idea.”

She lead Captain Bennet to a cart attached to a couple of donkeys, and a few other women piled in. Colonel Fitzwilliam was directed to sit by the cart driver.

“We are going to a wedding,” said Comandante Teresa. “In the town of Ronda. We are a big party on the bride’s side. If anyone stops us, don’t speak. Let Isabelle speak.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam touched the brim of his hat, attempting a yokel subservience he was not sure he could pull off, and Captain Bennet nodded. Just as the gray clouds overhead began to leak out their heavy supply of rain, they made it across the bridge spanning the gorge that divided the town, and into an inn. They were welcomed, and Colonel Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth were very pointedly pulled in and placed in a corner as far from the inn’s doors as possible. The common room was filled with Spanish natives, in clothes that fitted oddly— or at least seemed to, until Colonel Fitzwilliam realized the women were all uncomfortable because most of them had gone about in trousers for the duration of their service as guerillas and were now unused to skirts, and the men all had knives and swords hidden under their smocks and tailcoats.

The Spanish was, for a time, too rapid and too colloquial to follow. Colonel Fitzwilliam applied himself to bread and white bean stew, trusting he would eventually be told what he needed to know. Captain Bennet had a pinched, peaky look and did not manage much of her dinner. Colonel Fitzwilliam noticed this and flagged down the innkeeper.

“ _Una botella de vino, por favor_ ,” he said. “ _Ella... se lastimó?_ She hurt herself?” He hoped that was the right tense.

“ _Si_?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam pointed to his own shoulder.

The innkeeper nodded and returned with a bottle of wine, and a very small bottle of laudanum. “Better,” he insisted. “ _Màs fuerte. Eeeeeste..._ stronger.”

In Spanish much more fluent than Colonel Fitzwilliam’s, Captain Bennet asked for a glass of water and carefully mixed a few drops of laudanum in— just enough to dull the pain, but not enough to dull her mind. She ate with better appetite after that, which Colonel Fitzwilliam was glad to see.

Comandante Teresa came over to them, looking grim. “None of the other commanders have seen any British regiments, men or dragons, since yesterday’s battle. We have sent one of our few captains on courier weights in the direction your regiment was seen to have fled.”

“That may not mean anything in terms of our rescue,” said Captain Bennet, trying for cheer. “Just that they cannot yet get to us.”

At that, there was a giant crack of thunder, and it began to rain in earnest.

“Tonight we must all stay here,” said Comandante Teresa. “But do not be alarmed, it gives us more time to find your friends and more time for your friends to find you.”

She nodded to them and went back to the other guerilla commanders, close by the fire.

“Can dragons manage this kind of weather?” Colonel Fitzwilliam asked.

“Above the clouds,” she replied, with defeated mein and depressed aspect. “I suppose one or two of the ferals could manage in this downpour, but the thunder frightens them. Poor Wollstonecraft’s wings are too long and the membranes too delicate to stay aloft in this weather.” She paused; the conversation about them were abruptly cutting off.

A tense silence spread in waves throughout the common room. Colonel Fitzwilliam looked up.

A number of French aviators and soldiers were walking into the inn, drawn by the noise of music and smell of cooking food. Colonel Fitzwilliam himself instinctively drew back, and turned away, touching Captain Bennet’s elbow in warning. She tensed.

“Good gentlefolk,” said a French officer, in very accented Spanish, “we mean no disturbance. I am Lieutenant Remillard. We are only hoping to get out of the rain for a moment.”

“We are full up at present,” said the innkeeper stiffly.

“We need only take over your courtyard,” said Lieutenant Remillard, courteously. “Our dragons cannot fly in all this rain.”

Captain Bennet stifled an oath in English, and hastily unpinned the top part of the lace kerchief and drew it down over her face.

“What is it?” Colonel Fitzwilliam whispered.

“I know that blasted aviator that’s speaking just now,” she hissed. “Lieutenant Remillard. No, don’t look over your shoulder; there’s a mirror above my head; look there.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam looked up and noticed the patches, ribbons, and medals on Lieutenant Remillard’s coat. Ah yes. Lieutenant Too-Many-Medals. "Do you think there’s a chance he might recognize us?”

“He got close enough to try and pull me off my dragon, so I would assume so. His back was to you, from what I recall, so you should be fine, but he certainly looked me straight in the face while trying to kill me.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam signaled to Isabella and murmured the story, as more French aviators entered the inn, and the innkeeper argued they just remain outdoors; within ten seconds, Comandante Teresa came to them in alarm, and said, in quiet English, “The Frenchman knows you?”

“Yes, he’s the one who cut through my harness straps,” said Captain Bennet.

Comandante Teresa glanced about and said, “Right. Keep together here; do not look in his direction.” She rode over to speak to the group Colonel Fitzwilliam had pegged as other guerilla captains, judging by their positions closest to the fire, and the deference paid them by their men. Two of the female leaders bent their heads together; the one pretending to be the bride plucked the wreath of flowers off her head and passed it to Comandante Teresa.

In an instant, the flower crown was on Captain Bennet’s head.

“What—”

“You’re the bride and groom,” said Comandante Teresa.

This seemed odd, but there wasn’t enough time to question it. Isabella was already sidling up to the French officers, talking rapidly and quickly about weddings and spinning what seemed to Colonel Fitzwilliam a marvelously inventive story about her son’s wedding that morning.

Colonel Fitzwilliam pulled the signet ring off of his smallest finger. “Here. Take this.”

Captain Bennet took it with a puzzled air.

“To serve as a wedding ring,” he said, coloring a little. “If we are— they will look for one. I mean, for the—”

“Oh! Right.” Captain Bennet considered it a moment. “Does it go on the right or the left?”

“Your left.”

She grimaced, but managed to work it past the knuckle of her ring finger. “It will take some doing to get off.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam was very tempted to say he hoped she never would remove it, but this was clearly a thought born of nerves and panic, and too much excitement on too little sleep. “We shall bother ourselves about that when we are safe behind the lines of Torres Vedras.”  

Several other, drunker Spanish guerillas were now adding to Isabella’s story, describing the wedding ceremony and Spanish customs, and begging the French not to interrupt the union of a couple who had suffered so many misfortunes, it was really a wonder one or the other of them was not dead already.

“By all means,” said the aviator with the double epaulettes and star that marked him as formation captain, “continue your celebration. We will even drink a toast to the bride and the groom— we shall pay of course.” He signaled to the barkeep, but then seeing Isabella’s look of anxiety and confusion said, “Is this not the custom here?”

“It is only that they must now go up,” said Isabella, who then wholly invented a wedding custom for the region that involved all the guests engaging in some kind of noisy flamenco song, to wish the bride and groom luck consummating their union.

“Then let them go up, and we will drink to your song— and join you in it, if we may?”

Comandante Teresa hissed, “Go up the staircase on your right.”

The situation was too dangerous for Colonel Fitzwilliam to feel very embarrassed; he seized Captain Bennet by the hand and led her quickly to the stairs.

“Hold!” said Lieutenant Remillard. “Let us toast to the happy couple!”

Colonel Fitzwilliam turned and pasted on a smile, still gripping Captain Bennet’s hand tightly. He hadn’t a glass, and wasn’t sure what to do.

“Kiss your bride, senor,” the French division captain urged him genially, “and we will drink a health to you, before you go up. Though— hold a moment. Does everyone have a drink?”

Captain Bennet involuntarily squeezed his hand. His signet ring pressed strangely into his palm as she gripped his hand. He gently touched the ring with his thumb, hoping she understood what he was attempting to convey— a reminder of their service to Britain, their necessary sacrifices, the strange intimacy in which they now found themselves, his trust in her, and most importantly, his request for her permission— and Captain Bennet nodded slightly and raised her face to his.

For a moment, as she looked up at him through the white lace of her veil, he entirely forgot they were playacting; that he was about to kiss her out of necessity and self-preservation; that this meant nothing. Or not _nothing_ , but it wasn’t a sign she loved him or could think of him romantically. It was the way to save themselves  from capture and death. _And yet._

To him, a kiss carried such a weight of meaning it was a wonder he didn’t collapse under the strain of merely contemplating it. And there she was before him, in white veil and orange blossom, his ring upon her finger. The fantasy was intoxicating in its nearness, in its sudden possibility—

—but it was that. A fantasy. A necessary fiction, gone into in literal life or death circumstances. It was a veil to obscure reality, to protect their true selves.

Why then did he feel so exposed as he looked down at Captain Bennet, as the French aviators passed out glasses of wine and spirits, as everyone looked at them?

“Alright,” called the French division captain. “To the happy couple! Chin chin!”

Colonel Fitzwilliam decided to try to keep some measure of distance between them and shyly kissed her upturned lips through her veil.

It was not as much a barrier as he had initially thought. He still felt the softness of her lips beneath the flimsy scratch of lace, still felt the weight of his feelings come crashing upon him with the force of the tidal wave at the Battle of Shoeburyness. He was achingly aware of how close she was to him, how if he reached out to her, he could place his trembling hand on her abundant dark hair, or upon the neat turn of her waist, or on the soft curve of her cheek through the veil.  

“Call that a kiss?” roared out some Frenchman.

“They just married,” protested Isabella. “And my daughter-in-law is a good girl, educated in a convent. Much too good for my son!”

There was a polite titter of laughter, but Lieutenant Remillard began making his way forward and said, “And I heard the Spanish were a passionate people! Clearly there is a benefit to cross-cultural exchange. Here, let me kiss the bride—“

“No,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, stepping before Captain Bennet.

“I volunteer to demonstrate,” said Manuela, coquettishly, and, seizing the Lieutenant Remillard by the lapels, laid a smacking kiss on him. There was a genuine roar of laughter, which Lieutenant Remillard took good naturedly enough.

“Now you’ve seen how it’s done,” Lieutenant Remillard said. “Kiss her properly!”

Colonel Fitzwilliam didn’t know what to do, aside from making sure he blocked Captain Bennet from Lieutenant Remillard’s line of sight. “Sorry Bennet,” he whispered, in English.

“It’s alright,” she whispered back.

Colonel Fitzwilliam briefly raised her veil, but only to duck under it. The light cover of the veil allowed him the brief illusion of privacy, the sense that he it was safe to so expose himself, and kiss her without reservation, with all the desperate longing he had never managed to keep entirely at bay. This felt like a chance, he thought, to get it all out of his system, like a bloodletting, to rebalance his humors, to restore the base equanimity of his temper; or more honestly, like the only opportunity he might ever have to express his feelings without royally mucking up everything from their working relationship to the future status of women in the British Army.

He bent his head and kissed her.

Though Colonel Fitzwilliam had thought Captain Bennet would be frozen or unresponsive, or would merely stoically endure it, she yielded to his kiss, melting into his embrace— though that was not right, he dimly thought. She was terrified and her knees were giving out. Colonel Fitzwilliam caught her up in his arms, and Captain Bennet clung onto him, putting her right arm about his neck. She made a soft noise, he thought perhaps in thanks for catching her— for she was sagging against him entirely, her left arm cradled against her chest— but her lips parted slightly against his, she deepened the kiss (involuntarily, perhaps), and it thrilled through him with agonizing intensity.

‘Why couldn’t she have been a terrible kisser?’ Colonel Fitzwilliam with a stir of both elation and despair. The kiss had already gone on long enough to be convincing, but he couldn’t bear to stop. The feel of her lips moving against his own, the grip she had on his collar, her body pressed against him— it all felt impossibly sweet.

But the cheers and catcalls of the multitude penetrated the insubstantial barrier of lace veil and Lieutenant Remillard good-naturedly hooted, “Ha, they can be taught. Look at that!”

Colonel Fitzwilliam reluctantly broke off the kiss and leaned his forehead a moment against Captain Bennet’s. He knew he should apologize— she was trembling— but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. As a sop to his conscience he decided that it was too risky to speak in English, with the attention of the whole room on them— and all he could manage was a weak, “ _Estás bien_?”

Captain Bennet nodded a little, her breathing still uneven, her fingers clutching tight into his collar.

Colonel Fitzwilliam kept his left arm about her waist, but used his right to emerge from underneath the veil. The French aviators all roared with approval and were damnably encouraging.

“Kiss her good, senor!”

“Good job!”

“That’s how you kiss a real lady!”

“Well done, _mon brave,_ well done!”

If he had been sixteen and kissed a woman for the first time, he might have been flattered and pulled into their jolly camaraderie, but, as it was he turned red and gave a weak wave and mumbled out his “ _gracias_ ”es, hoping that no one caught onto the fact that he spoke Spanish with an unshakable Etonian accent.

“I bet your wife is very happy to be married to you now,” said Lieutenant Remillard, beaming.

Captain Bennet used this as an excuse to grab hold of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s upper arm and tug him towards the stairs, to the hollering approval of the French aviators.

“Yes, you see what you get when you kiss your wife correctly,” crowed Lieutenant Remillard.

Colonel Fitzwilliam felt as if he had endured more than enough at the hands of the French, and with a smile he hoped was not too uncomfortable, turned for the stairs.

Captain Bennet stumbled, unused to her skirts, and blinded by her veil, on the first step. Colonel Fitzwilliam acted as much out of gallantry as the desperate urge to get the hell out of the room and swept her up in his arms.

There were wolf whistles and cheers at that, and when he bounded up the stairs, trying to go quickly enough his arms would not get tired from carrying Captain Bennet, some very lewd wishes of happiness, and pieces of advice were hurled after him. He could not tell if Captain Bennet was blushing under her veil, but his own face felt hot. It did not help that he quite liked holding Captain Bennet in this fashion; she had hooked an arm about his neck to keep from falling, and had turned her face to his chest, feigning maidenly modesty. She was not a light armful, but she was a cozy one, warm and smelling of the orange blossom wreath about her brow. Nor could he stop himself from thinking to himself, ‘I kissed her! I kissed Captain Bennet! What the hell!!!’ running through his thoughts like a thoroughbred round and round a racetrack.

He did not set Captain Bennet down until they were shown into a room, by the very nervous innkeeper. Colonel Fitzwilliam cleared his throat. “Apologies for that Bennet—”

“Oh no I was glad of the lift,” she replied, flipping back her veil. She was flushed. “I wasn’t sure I could see well enough to make it up myself. Can we escape from the window?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam cautiously opened the curtain. The window looked out over the gorge dividing the old and the new town. One had to look down a very long way to see the river below.

“Hm,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, staring down the deep ravine, “somehow I don’t think so.”

“Are there any other exits?” asked Captain Bennet, as Colonel Fitzwilliam twitched the curtains shut. The only other window looked out at the gorge as well; Colonel Fitzwilliam went quickly out into the hall and gestured to the innkeeper, before going into a room opposite. This room looked out over the courtyard, explained the innkeeper, cautiously pulling the curtain open and then groaning.

“What’s out front?” asked Captain Bennet, apprehensively.

There was a Flamme de Gloire huddled miserably in the courtyard, with all its crew scuttling over its back, putting up an oilskin tent above it. The sound of guitars and percussion, accompanied by the drawn-out wail of a singer about to launch into a flamenco song, spilled out into the courtyard and drifted up to the window. The innkeeper apologetically told them that the kitchen also looked out into the courtyard, and the doors to the cellar were in the courtyard itself.

“Oh God, we’re trapped,” said Captain Bennet, deflating. “If we could get a dragon here—into the gorge—”

“Can you go to Comandante Teresa?” Colonel Fitzwilliam asked the innkeeper.

Comandante Teresa was also stumped. She and the other commanders could advise them only to stay put upstairs. They could possibly get a dragon to their window, but not in this rain. The French did not seem so bad mannered as to barge in on a couple so newly married and, in the meantime, Isabella recommended Captain Bennet soak her shoulder in a hot bath; Isabella would make up some sachets of herbs and give them to the servants carrying up the hot water. This was agreed to; and Colonel Fitzwilliam and Captain Bennet retreated to their first room, feeling low and a little anxious. It was not a bad room; there was a large four-poster bed with fresh sheets and chintz hangings; by the fire there was a small round table and two chairs, and tucked behind a large dressing screen.

Some food and wine was brought up to them, as the bath was set up; but the gusts of flamenco music drifting up to them, the rapid, almost tortured sound of the guitar chords and the wails of the singer, made Colonel Fitzwilliam feel melancholy.

“This is really the song they chose to urge on two newlyweds?” asked Captain Bennet, resting her elbow on the table and her chin on her hand. “I can’t imagine anyone getting full up with pep enough to go at it, hearing this.”

“I imagine the musicians were a bit out of sorts, being called on on such short notice and have to express their distress before they can go on,” he replied, as the sound of clapping hands and stamping feet began audible. “The dancing of the flamenco is always rather fine, I think; at least, I like to watch it when I can.”

She teased, “Of course you do, it’s like seeing horses do tricks, all that stamping and fancy footwork. But I do not mean to denigrate it; if I could actually dance it instead of causing all the Spanish camp followers to roar with laughter whenever they see me try to move my arms about as elegantly as they do, I should like it a great deal better.” Captain Bennet raised her head from her hand and listened thoughtfully as the clapping began to speed up and the song shift into a major key. “There we are. I suppose they just wanted the newlyweds to be fully aware of the seriousness of their endeavor.” The rapid percussion of bootheels on wooden floorboards became audible.

There fell a semi-awkward silence.

‘We just kissed!’ Colonel Fitzwilliam wanted to blurt out.

“Do you,” Captain Bennet began hesitantly and then blushed and said, “Nevermind.”

“I, um. I’m sorry if—“

“Don’t be sorry,” she said, very quickly. “I— it. I didn’t mind, honestly. And it would— we would have been caught out at once if you hadn’t. And it, um. I think we made it believable.”

“I, er.” He cleared his throat. “I did my poor best. I can but try.”

“Oh you succeeded,” said Captain Bennet, lightly. “My God, Fitz! You do sell yourself short. Definitely in my list of top ten kisses.”

“Is it,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said faintly.

“I meant to put you at ease, not make you uncomfortable,” said Captain Bennet. Then, tentatively, “It— you didn’t find it too awful...?”

“Oh God no,” he said, probably too quickly and with too much vehemence. “It— um. I’m embarrassed about myself.” The real truth was impossible to get out; he unhappily equivocated, “I haven’t kissed anyone in years. Not since.... uh, a masquerade at Lady Melbourne’s before shipping out to Spain.”

“That’s not _years_.”

“ _A_ year.” And he’d been immediately ashamed of himself, for he’d been aware that he’d much rather be kissing Captain Bennet rather than the young widow in the peacock mask who’d so kindly flirted with him all evening.

“And,” Captain Bennet said, coloring and not quite able to look him in the eyes, “if that’s how you kiss when you’re _out_ of practice, I should dearly like to know what it’s like when you are at peak performance.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam made a thoroughly pathetic noise, fortunately covered by the sound of the servants entering with the last buckets of water.

Captain Bennet pushed away her uneaten plate of tapas and said, with the same purposeful lightness as before, “Well, doctor’s orders. I’m having a bath. Sorry to leave you to entertain yourself, Fitz.”

“I have my novel,” he said, taking it out of his waistcoat pocket, and taking one of the chairs, positioned himself with his back to the fire. This was partially to have better light upon his page, and partly because the servants and set up the bath on the other side of the fire. There were dressing screens at an angle about the tub, to trap in the heat of the fire, but Colonel Fitzwilliam felt haunted by the idea that he would still see Captain Bennet’s shadow through it.

It felt like some sort of terrible joke on behalf of the Almighty’s, that he was going to have a wedding night, of sorts, with Captain Bennet. He’d even raised her veil to kiss her. That it came when they and all the guerilla commanders in the region were surrounded, and trapped in an inn with an enemy dragon on one side and a gorge on another, without a ceremony, and while Captain Bennet was still uninterested in him as anything other than a friend and fellow officer seemed just par for the course, in terms of blessings from above. Nothing he ever really longed for seemed to come uncomplicatedly to pass. And he could not forget how lovely Captain Bennet had looked today, how involuntarily his heart leapt within his breast as he had taken her into his arms— and it would not do to say his heart had been racing from nerves and danger, only. So weak and feeble a defense crumbled at once; especially when Colonel Fitzwilliam picked up the crown of orange blossom Captain Bennet had left on the table, and found himself smiling wryly at it. Its scent rose lightly up to him, and he recalled with pleasure the feeling of Captain Bennet leaning her head against his chest, and putting her arm about his neck.

He did not pay very close attention to his novel, and for some minutes merely listened to the muffled sound of flamenco; then he became aware of Captain Bennet softly swearing to herself.

“Something the matter, Bennet?”

“I cannot undo my stays,” she admitted.

Colonel Fitzwilliam turned in his seat. Captain Bennet poked her head out from behind the dressing screen. Her dark hair waved loosely about her shoulders, over the strap of her stays and the short sleeve of her chemise.  

“Not with my shoulder as it is,” she said, blushing. “I’m sorry Fitz, but I can’t manage it on my own....”

Colonel Fitzwilliam stared at her a moment and then realized the implied request.

‘Of fucking course,’ he thought. ‘Because this whole bloody situation wasn't enough of a torment.’ But nevertheless he offered to be of assistance.

Captain Bennet edged out from behind the screen, looking like he imagined Diana did, disrobing before she glimpsed Actaeon and turned him into a deer for daring to look upon such untouchable beauty. Her hair streaked darkly and lushly down to her shoulder blades, her legs and arms were bare, and her expression uncertain. Colonel Fitzwilliam tried not to look at anything but her forehead. That seemed safe. Or did until she turned, moved her hair over her shoulder and exposed the back of her stays. “Sorry Fitz,” she said anxiously. “I know it's not something you're very comfortable with, but I just can't quite— if you just undo the knot at the top and loosen the strings I can manage the rest myself. I do hate to ask it of you.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam briefly and involuntarily made a noise like a dying elephant, which he unsuccessfully turned into a badly faked sneeze. Captain Bennet did not comment on it. He was absurdly grateful she didn't.

It was more difficult to move himself forward than it was to undo the knot at the top of her stays. It was, however, frustratingly difficult trying to loosen the strings. He accidentally managed to tighten them at first, to which Captain Bennet let out an involuntary gasp, and at his apology said, wryly, “Don't worry Fitz. I know you're not a rake. I don't expect you to know how women’s undergarments work.”

It was really unfair, he thought, that the floorboards didn't just swallow him up at once. He somehow managed to undo the knot and said, “There you are Bennet. If I were you, I’d turn me off without character, as a lady’s maid.”

She laughed and disappeared behind the screen again.

Colonel Fitzwilliam walked to the opposite side of the room and fussed with the curtains and the latch on the window. It was still raining. The dragon was still there, presumably. Under the tent. Maybe if he kept staring long enough he’d see it.

After about five minutes, he realized that he was actually looking out over the gorge.

Colonel Fitzwilliam rested his forehead against the cool glass. If the French didn’t kill him, this would.


	7. In which Colonel Fitzwilliam and Captain Bennet must share a bed

“Your turn!”

Colonel Fitzwilliam made a vague noise of assent from his position at the window. 

He heard the sounds of displaced water and of a towel, that had hanging over one of the low screens from the fire to warm, being whipped off and used. Captain Bennet asked, “Fitz, are you still by the window? What on earth for?”

“Escape,” he said. Then, realizing he had been a little too honest, said, “I think the only way to get out of here would be through the gorge, but... there aren’t bedsheets enough in this entire inn to reach the bottom of the gorge. I’ve been trying to work out if we could hold onto the gutters and get around to the front of the inn, but I don’t think so. The leaps would be too large. And the window ledges seem too narrow a path. Our best bet would be a dragon, but....”

“They couldn’t fly in such a downpour,” said Captain Bennet. 

Colonel Fitzwilliam turned to look at her out of habit, in order to reply to her, and blushed violently. Captain Bennet was before the fire, drying off her abundant dark hair, quite oblivious to his notice. Her shift clung to her so obscenely, it would have been less immodest if she had bathed nude. He averted his eyes as she dried off, and then went to sit on the bed and brush the tangles out of her hair one-handed. Colonel Fitzwilliam went wordlessly and swiftly behind the screen to wash himself... and to hide his now quite obvious interest. 

He managed to calm himself enough to shave, and felt much better for being able to run his hands over his face without feeling stubble scratch at his bare palms. Colonel Fitzwilliam had never understood how some men managed to put up with stubble long enough to grow beards. The few times he had been in situations where he had been forced to go more than a day without shaving he felt disheveled and uncivilized and very much not himself. He spent extra time behind the screen attempting to wash his clothing in the tub, and reminding himself that a gentleman did not force his lusts on respectable women  _ or  _ on his fellow officers, and managed to return to a less excited state by sticking his head in the now cold water, while retrieving his trousers. It was with some satisfaction that Colonel Fitzwilliam pulled out the last of his newly cleaned clothing to dry on the screen. There. Those were the actions of a civilized gentleman. 

The sudden realization that he wasn't wearing anything, and was separated only by a screen from a shift-clad Captain Bennet rather cut up this sense of peace. 

Colonel Fitzwilliam grumpily thought that someone should have invented some substance by now, to pour in one’s ear to wash clean the surface of one’s mind. He availed himself of the new opportunity to run his hands over his face. Dear God. How was he going to survive the evening without horribly betraying himself?

All that civilization could presently do to differentiate men from beasts had now been done. Perhaps he could just... sit there, forever. That sounded like a splendid plan. Just sit naked in a very uncomfortable straw-bottomed chair and Not Think About how translucent Captain Bennet’s shift had been, and how low her tan went between her breasts—

“Goddamit,” he muttered.

“You alright, Fitz?” Captain Bennet asked.

“My shirt won't dry,” he said grumpily, testing it. “It's still damp.”

“You don't have to wear it.”

“I'm not Captain Wentworth,” he objected. 

Captain Bennet laughed. 

When he felt he could no longer avoid it, he put on his shirt, in a dubious attempt at modesty. At least his shirt was clean. Damp, but clean, and smelling of soap and herbs instead of sweat, horse, and gunpowder. Captain Bennet had propped herself up against the headboard, with the bedclothes drawn up over her lap. 

“Um,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, glancing about the room. “If you toss me a pillow, Bennet, I’ll kip here before the fire—”

“What?” She looked at him blankly. “Fitz, this bed’s big enough for four people to fit comfortably. I daresay it once held an entire family of peasants.”

“I, ah— the rug looks comfortable enough—” 

“Share the bed with me,” she said, impatiently. “Stop letting honor addle your wits.”

“But—”

She crossed her arms. “Fitz, get into the bed. This is no different from sharing a blanket, which we have done before; we did so last night.”

“Of course it’s different,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, rather red. “For Christ’s sake, Bennet, we’re in a room alone together without a chaperone, and it— well, as spacious a bed as you seem to think it, there’s infinitely more space on the ground.”

“Fitz, if you sleep on the rug, I will too.”

“What, why?”

“To prove how nonsensical you’re being! Would you have any scruples about sharing a bed with say, Gowing, or Wyndham?”

“I— well, no, but—”

“Do you think me any less an officer as either of them?”

“No!” he said vehemently, but he could not quite get out, ‘but I am attracted to you, and have fancied you for this year and more; and I am not and have not for either of them.’ 

“Then come sleep in the bed, or risk offending me forever.”

He was tired enough and emotionally frazzled enough to give in. After drawing the bed curtains closed, they lay back to back, mostly to lessen Colonel Fitzwilliam’s embarrassment. With his eyes closed, resolutely facing away from her, he could almost will himself to be easy. It was pleasant indeed to be clean and in an actual bed, with an actual pillow, next to a pretty woman who smelled of soap and some kind of herbal hair wash, and whose warmth made cozy the bed linens. If he had not been so very aware that his bedmate was not some pretty woman in the abstract, but Captain Elizabeth Bennet, who had so caught his fancy he was in a fair way to being lost, he might have fallen asleep immediately. As it was, he was very painfully at attention. 

He heard her shift behind him and asked, “Um, all well with the shoulder, Bennet?”

“It is a little sore,” she said, “but I can flex my fingers and move everything. Thank you, Fitz.” After a pause she asked, “You fell from dragonback too. Are you well?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam permitted himself a stupid joke that hopefully she would not get, and replied, “Stiff. I daresay I can sleep it off.”

“Ah, good.” 

How could this evening get any worse, he thought, with a stir of despair. He and his co-leader of the division were stranded behind enemy lines, cut off from the Anglo-Allied forces, forced to pretend to be a newlywed couple in an inn stuffed to the rafters with French aviators, while having no proper night clothes, and only one bed to share for one very long night together.  Colonel Fitzwilliam spent some ten minutes lying on his side, wondering if he would manage to sleep at all, before he hit upon the tactic of mentally reciting Roman emperors from Caesar Augustus on, in order to quiet his mind. Just as at Eton, he was asleep by the time he hit Gordian III. 

He woke a disappointingly short amount of time later, to all the problems he’d had the night before, with the added complication that Captain Bennet had tucked herself against his back, an arm about his waist (an arm he was holding, he noted in dismay, abruptly releasing it), and the fact that someone was trying to open their door, Colonel Fitzwilliam raised his head from the pillow. Several someones. Several  _ drunk  _ someones speaking what sounded like French.

Captain Bennet stirred behind him. “Are we under attack?” 

“Possibly,” he whispered, raising himself up on an arm. Colonel Fitzwilliam felt stealthily at the bedcurtains, trying to find where they parted, and found an edge. He cautiously raised it and saw some very drunk French aviators failing to sneak into the room, and trying to hush each other without making noise.

Colonel Fitzwilliam suddenly realized he had no weapons, none. He felt, rather than saw, Captain Bennet come to this same realization. Colonel Fitzwilliam put a hand out to grab the pillow, though he wasn’t sure what good this would do, when Captain Bennet whispered in his ear, “They don’t know. They can’t know— I hear them saying ‘mari’ a lot. That’s husband. And 'femme,' that's wife.”

He eyed the drunken pile of French aviators by the door, through the gap in the bed curtains.

“They’re suspicious we’re all guerillas and not a wedding party— oh hell,” she said. Her arm was still about him. She managed to roll him over, and Colonel Fitzwilliam abruptly found himself on top of Captain Bennet. 

He put his hands on either side of her face and tried to push himself up. She held on. 

Colonel Fitzwilliam got out an anguished, scandalized hiss of, “Bennet—”

“They don’t think this is a real wedding, Fitz!” she hissed back. “We have to convince them!” 

Captain Fitzwilliam felt hysterical laughter bubbling up. Of  _ fucking course _ ! Because he had rhetorically asked, in the safety of his own head, how this evening could get any worse, God, or a Supreme Being, or the universe at large had decided to respond, ‘Why yes, Richard William Fitzwilliam, this evening can and  _ will  _ get worse! The only way you can now escape with your life is to pretend to consummate your union with the woman you love and absolutely cannot have sex with under any circumstances!’ 

“Good God, Fitz,” Captain Bennet hissed. “We haven’t time, and I  _ cannot  _ fucking do this on my own—”

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be, just—” She put a hand to either side of his face and pulled him down to kiss her. She kissed him as if her life depended on it, for, as Colonel Fitzwilliam giddily thought, it did. 

It was as good as it had been earlier that evening, in the tap room, and Colonel Fitzwilliam was glad that the French hadn’t pulled the bedcurtains back yet, so that he had a moment to shake off his awkwardness, to let it melt away and off him, so that he could sink into her embrace as a husband might with a new wife. 

It was startingly easy to lose himself in the fantasy, for it was one had had shamefully contemplated before, and yet there were all sorts of details he had not anticipated. Captain Bennet’s hands were not as calloused as he had thought them to be; her palms were soft against his cheeks, her fingertips, lightly resting against his sideburns, felt smooth as she stroked him, trying to calm him and reassure him. He didn’t know why he thought her hands would be rough; she always wore gloves when aloft, or when climbing or fencing. Her kiss was as sweet as it had been in the taproom, too, the sort of melting increase of sweetness that reminded him of  sugar dissolving into tea. Her shift felt far too thin a barrier between them; he could feel the heat of her body, now knew by touch that she  _ was _ solid muscle, as she had jokingly told him... God was it only yesterday?

“I’ve never,” Captain Bennet whispered, and he felt her blush, felt the hot rush of blood as he gave into the impulse to nuzzle her right cheek. “How does one... that is... they’ll leave, I think, if  _ they think _ we are....”

Colonel Fitzwilliam privately wondered if something that would mortify any English officer who saw it would really have any effect upon a French one, but what the hell, he had no other plan, and no inclination at all to stop kissing Captain Bennet. He had been laying at at awkward angle on top of her; he shifted and pressed his cheek to hers, trying to draw comfort from less fraught of a touch, before saying low in her ear, “Put your legs around my waist, Bennet. I’m going to undo your braid so they don’t see your face.” 

She shivered, but nodded and shifted beneath him as he twisted, so that he lay within the cradle of her thighs. It was impossible to ignore how little separated them now. Two very thin bits of muslin, to be exact. Colonel Fitzwilliam was very painfully aware of where his shirt did and did not touch his own overheated skin and could not tear his mind away from how Captain Bennet’s shift had ridden up her thighs, and how little there now was covering  _ her _ .

He found the bit of ribbon holding her braid together and pulled it out, trying to distract himself by combing out her hair with his fingers. The scent of her hair wash filled his senses. It was nice and distracting enough to keep him from an ungentlemanly reaction to their circumstances, but then she slid her leg around his waist and pulled him closer and there really was only his shirt separating them and  _ oh fuck— _

“God, I’m—” Colonel Fitzwilliam burned with equal parts embarrassment and arousal. He was fully at attention. “ _ Terribly  _ sorry, Bennet that I’ve, uh. Reacted as I have.”

“I’d have been offended if you hadn’t,” she said, with a breathy laugh, as she put her other leg around his waist. “I’m... I’m glad I’m doing it right— oh hell.” 

There were creaking footsteps. The French party had decided to advance. Colonel Fitzwilliam swallowed and tried to lean more weight on his arms, but he only pressed closer to the apex of her thighs and now Captain Bennet was putting her arms about his shoulders and kissing him. Right. Well. He could keep his head in these circumstances.

He couldn’t.

Though he had honestly meant to keep an ear out for the approaching soldiers, Captain Bennet was shifting under him in a deliciously maddening way, apparently trying to figure out how best to support his weight. Understandable, yes, but she kept brushing against him in so intimate a fashion, he could feel his higher brain functions cheerfully shutting up shop for the evening and redirecting blood flow. As the kiss continued, as her breasts pushed against his chest, as the soft skin of her inner thighs pressed against the outside of his legs, his resolve weakened more and more. Colonel Fitzwilliam buried one hand in her loose dark hair and moved the other to her hip, meaning only to pin her in place, and keep himself from losing himself entirely. But she gasped at his touch, and somehow they were kissing deeply, tongues touching, and Colonel Fitzwilliam realized he felt only skin, not muslin, where he was gripping her hip, and he groaned softly against her lips. He moved his hand down, cupping her bare backside, pressing his hips into hers. God, it felt good to touch her.

Captain Bennet made a soft noise, as if she was trying not to moan, and pressed up against him. His shirt was riding up; he could feel her wet warmth, the surprising softness of her inner thighs; of course he must rock against her and it was only natural she respond in kind—

Then the bed curtains were abruptly yanked back. Captain Bennet clung tightly to him, burying her face in his chest with a gasp. Colonel Fitzwilliam flattened himself on top of her and turned towards the aviators. All of them were staring, dumbfounded.

Colonel Fitzwilliam could not help the irritation and resentment he felt at being interrupted from showing, and said, in Spanish, really meaning it, “What the  _ fuck _ ?”

The aviators tumbled over themselves to get back out the door. Colonel Fitzwilliam scrambled after them, making sure to pull the bedcurtains shut behind him, and grabbed his breeches from where they were drying. He managed to pull his breeches on and run into the hall just in time to see the French aviators descending, and Isabella scrambling up the stairs. He drew Isabella into the room across the hall and said, “Those men burst into the room, hoping to prove this was a fake wedding and we were all guerillas. I think we managed to convince them it was a real marriage, but—”

Isabella pressed her lips together. “We’ll take care of it. Lock the door and wedge a chair under the handle. I’ll find out what they know and alert you in the morning.”

“I’d feel better if I had a pistol,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. 

“I dare not get one up to you,” said Isabella. “Not if they are already suspicious.”

There was shouting in French below; Colonel Fitzwilliam and Isabella looked out into the hall. 

The French division captain came bounding up the stairs and said, much harassed, “I am so, so sorry señor, I cannot convey to you the depths of my regret— sir! My men, my drunken midwingmen— I am so sorry they have ruined your wedding night. A thousand apologies, señor. Pray— dine with me tomorrow morning, you and your lovely wife. It is the least I can do to make up for—”

“Do you think my daughter-in-law, convent educated girl that she is, would be happy to  _ dine  _ with men who burst into her during so intimate a moment?” Isabella demanded. “She is crying and swearing she will never leave the room again!” 

“I shall set my own lieutenants to guard their door, to keep this from happening again,” said the division captain.

“No,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, much alarmed. 

“My son is right,” Isabella said, crossing her arms. “Your men caused this problem. Putting more men by the door will cause more problems. I do not trust your men! They wish only to embarrass my daughter-in-law, it appears. Or perhaps what we hear of the French is true and you are all deviants who wish to take your pleasures from what ought to be the private affairs of the marriage bed.”

“But señora, it was only because—”

“I do not care for any excuse you may offer, for nothing can excuse what happened.”

“There can be no excuse for it,” said the division captain. “We will pay for any and all expenses the bride and groom incur. We shall punish the midwingmen severely. Please señora—”

Colonel Fitzwilliam made a vague gesture at his room.

“I will be putting my cousins in this room,” Isabella informed the division captain, pointing at the room across from where Captain Bennet was hiding, “to ensure your men do not come up again.”

“They will be flogged if they do,” said the division captain. “I shall set my men at the foot of the stairs then and watch them myself until I retire for the evening. Señor, I shall let you return to your lovely wife and again, sir, our apologies for interrupting so, er, private a moment. We shall give you your privacy and find some way to make it up to you. Señora, pray, if you will come down with me, we may talk this over....”

Colonel Fitzwilliam went back into his room, where he shut the door, locked it, and wedged a chair under the handle. “All’s clear Bennet. The French division captain thinks his drunk midwingmen burst in on a pair of newlyweds going at it. We are, however, trapped in this room even more so than before.”

There came a faint “Hm,” from behind him.

“The division captain was mortified, offered to pay our shot and station men about the stairs, and, er, all that. Isabella’s across the hall, or, rather, will have someone there....” The chair was wedged very firmly under the handle. He fussed with it a few more times to make sure.

He heard a rustle of fabric behind him and guessed Captain Bennet had parted the bedcurtains. Colonel Fitzwilliam cleared his throat. He was going to have so say something about... he didn’t even know what to call it in the safety of his own head. 

“We, uh,” he said, “convinced them. Effectively. Hopefully they won’t think too hard about my accent.”

“Hm.”

“How bad was my accent?” he asked, finally gathering up enough courage to face Captain Bennet. 

“Not as Etonian as usual,” she said weakly. She was sprawled on the bed, hair spread darkly across the pillows, pressing the back of her left hand to her forehead. The firelight gleamed against the signet of Britannia she had on her ring finger. His heart ached within his chest. She looked fairly ravished as she lay there, the bedclothes in disorder, her shift askew and half pulled off one shoulder, her hair still loose from when he had been running his hands through it. “I’m. Um. Thanks for that, Fitz.”

“Thanks for your quick thinking, Bennet,” he said, striving for lightness and sounding strained. 

Captain Bennet released a puff of air, meant to be a laugh. 

“I’m sorry about earlier—“

“I wish you weren’t,” she said, hiding her eyes behind her hand. “I know we oughtn’t... that you don’t....” She drew in an uneven breath and released it, slowly and audibly. “Fitz, I’ve never felt so unsettled in my life. And no, no, it’s not because of you. You’re the only reason I’m alive and reasonably calm at the moment. I just— we are trapped in an inn with a gorge on one side and a Flamme-de-gloire on the other, in a thunderstorm too heavy for dragons to fly, with an entire French Aerial crew below, some members of which are already suspicious that our only defense— the fiction that we are newlyweds married today, and everyone here is a guest— is just that. A fiction.”

“Speaking of that,” he said, clearing his throat. “I could... it would make sense, I think, if I sat up in a chair to guard—“

“No, I don’t—“ she exhaled sharply. “It’s very chivalrous of you, and  _ very _ stupid. Not just our lives, but the lives of every guerilla here depend on our successfully masquerading as a married couple. Please come back to bed.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam did not know why he was taking a turn for the pachyderm that evening but he was. The noise that he made sounded like an elephant with a head cold. He woodenly released the door handle and then made his way to the bed.

Captain Bennet shifted to give him space. Colonel Fitzwilliam sat upright, his back against the headboard, and listening to the crackle of the fire and the sound of the storm outside. He counted between thunderclaps. He wondered if he should light a candle and attempt his book again. 

“This reminds me a bit of when we went riding, after Cuidad Rodrigeo,” Captain Bennet said. “I... it’s stupid and changes nothing about our circumstances, but I feel better for having you beside me.” She moved cautiously towards him and looked up saying, “Fitz, I— I... I hate these circumstances, but I’m glad to be with you. Please don’t... beat yourself up over what we’ve had to do.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I just... I don’t really know what to say, Bennet. I’d rather shoot myself in the head than ruin our... friendship. Our working relationship. It’s, um. We’re the most effective division in Spain and I think that’s in large part because you and I understand each other so well and work well together.”

“I’m not sure you entirely understand me right now,” said Captain Bennet, with a wry smile. “I don’t... know how to make it clearer to you that I really don’t  _ mind  _ kissing you and you oughtn’t to torment yourself over it. In fact...” She pushed herself up with her good arm and then leaned forward to kiss his cheek, softly. 

Colonel Fitzwilliam froze in place. 

“No one’s here,” she said, sitting back. “That was purely for you and for me; because I wished to do it. Pray think on that if we’re... required to act our parts tomorrow, and remember I’d kiss you without the pressure of an expectant audience. I... I care for you a great deal, Fitz.”

“Bennet, I care more about you than nearly anyone else,” he said, helplessly, and not knowing what else to do, put an arm about her. Captain Bennet curled up against his side, resting her head on his shoulder. He pressed his lips to her hair for a moment, gathering courage. “I just— I never want to do anything that would harm you in any way.”

“Getting caught by the French would harm me most at this point in time,” she said dryly. 

He made an amused noise and buried his face in her hair. 

“We’ll get through this,” she said. “All of it. We’ll do what we must and we’ll make it out alive. It doesn’t matter what happens here, as long as we survive. That’s what we have to keep repeating to ourselves.”

Colonel Fitzwiliam did, and noticed that though he did not let go of Captain Bennet, as they settled back into bed, she did not let go of him either. They needed each other in ways that were difficult to articulate and, he thought, in ways they themselves were only beginning to understand. 


	8. In which things come to a climax

Colonel Fitzwilliam was beginning to hate rain. Having spent his formative years in England, and having been brought up to take no insignificant amount of pride in his homeland, his relationship to rain had always been one of exasperated affection. It was one of those things that inconvenienced everyone but reminded him of afternoons playing made-up games with his siblings and cousins in damp schoolrooms, or being lectured by his mother on art history in the long gallery, or scuffling for the place closest to the fire at Eton, to either warm up, or to toast bread for his fag-master. 

“What on earth is fagging?” Captain Bennet asked. She was still half-drowsing with her head on his shoulder, in the gray, cold morning, with the thunder rumbling disconsolately in the distance. Neither of them were very inclined to get up. “It’s a word that gives no clue as to its meaning.”

“It’s when a younger student acts as a sort of footman for an elder,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. He still had an arm around Captain Bennet, but had the other tucked up behind his head. “In return the elder acts as a sort of protector, teaching you the rules of the place and stopping anyone who bullied you. Doesn’t the Corps have something like that? You said you started as a runner.”

She shook her head. Her unbound hair was soft against his chin. “Runners  _ run _ . We actually name our junior positions sensibly. You take messages for your captain, or fetched and carried. Often you were the first to run up or run off dragonback.”

“What did you do when it rained?”

“Oh, well, I’ve always been on Longwings,” said Captain Bennet, “so nothing, really. It may shock you to know that they have... prepare yourself...  _ very long wings _ .”

Colonel Fitzwilliam gasped in feigned outrage. “Shocking!”

“Indeed,” she said, solemnly. 

“Clearly I ought to have paid attention earlier and realized you aviators like to be literal when naming things.”

“Oh yes, not a man jack of us has ever heard of a metaphor. Though really, it’s not so much the rain as the wind and the temperature fluctuations. The force of the wind is particularly awful to navigate on a dragon with such an enormous wingspan, and all dragons are coldblooded. Too long in the cold rain and they go into hibernation. When it rained, we just set up oilskin tents, like the French did for their firebreather, and waited it out. My Aunt Bess used to make us do dramatic readings of comedies, so we wouldn’t be bored into fighting with each other.”

He felt somewhat uneasy at mention of this and said, “Did you enjoy acting then?”

“I could only really do justice to the ladies who put on trousers for purposes of comedic misunderstanding,” she said, “which I’m sure says  _ something  _ about my character, but I’m not sure what. Probably that I can act only when drawing on what I already knew.”

There was a double meaning in that, but it was one Colonel Fitzwilliam was not sure he should probe too deeply. Ever since Lieutenant Lucas had so carefully and yet so pointedly warned him at Brighton that men always took Captain Bennet’s naturally lively playful manner for flirtation, because she was so pretty and so generally friendly, he had been careful to remind himself that Captain Bennet was not and could not be flirting with him. It was all wishful thinking on his part. Besides, why would someone so unique as Captain Bennet find anything attractive in  _ him _ ? He was a perfectly ordinary English aristocrat. The army was chock full of them. Hell, you couldn’t visit the Newmarket races without tripping over someone exactly like him, down to the fascination with stupid horse tricks. 

“I don’t suppose they encouraged you to act, at Eton?”

“We had to translate plays out of Latin and Greek into English on the spot, but that was it,” he said. “I’ve a great-aunt, or  _ had  _ a great-aunt, Lady Ravenshaw, whose husband was was wild for home theatricals, but after one disastrous turn on the stage, I was not allowed to be in them.”

‘What, did your parents think it improper?”

“Oh no, not at all! My father was an hilarious and much sought-after Polonius until his health got too bad to support the journey to Cornwall, where my great-uncle still lives and puts on his theatricals. _ I _ was banned after my elder brother Stornoway and I were recruited to play the princes in the tower, in  _ Richard III. _ Stornoway was so forgetful, and I was so dreadfully wooden and unconvincing, and the members of the house party so drunk, everyone cheered when they heard the little princes had been murdered.”

Captain Bennet snorted. 

He said, rather slowly, “I’m not a good actor at all. I really can’t be anything other than I am.”

“No,” said Captain Bennet, shifting slightly, so that she could look him in the eye. “It’s a skill, really. Acting, I mean. What always helped me was to anchor the scene to something I felt. Or had felt before. Ask yourself, ‘is there something in this role with which I can identify?’” 

Colonel Fitzwilliam looked down at Captain Bennet curiously and wondered to himself... but no, surely she was just trying to give him some much needed help? But... at the same time, she had been so convincing last night when they were... he began to blush and tried to sort through the embarrassed confusion he now felt. Did she... was it possible she  _ was  _ attracted to him? This was a wonderful and terrifying prospect, and, if it was true, made it so unbearably difficult for him to keep from acting on his own feelings. No, no, he argued to himself feebly. She’d obviously been in love before, that was all. She’d never made love before and managed a reasonable stab at simulating it.  _ Reasonable _ . Dear God. She’d been  _ wonderful. _

Before he could get too obviously carried away by this idea, Captain Bennet dropped her gaze and fussed with the button at his collar, asking it, rather than him, “I know you’ve never married, but surely you’ve had mistresses and can pull on that experience.”

“Yes,” he said, too startled to lie. “But I— it’s different.”

“What, have they been opera singers you couldn’t introduce to your mother?”

“It— no! I did attempt to keep an actress, but didn’t much enjoy it—“”

Captain Bennet sat up and stared at him, clearly surprised. “Did you  _ really?  _ No, no, you can’t hold out on me Fitz! You’ve  _ got  _ to tell me.”

He hid his face in his hands. “No. This whole situation is awkward enough as it is.”

“Fitz, our lives and the lives of everyone here really in our ability to convincingly act as if we are married and madly in love.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam bit back the very stupid impulse to say he didn’t need to  _ pretend  _ to be madly in love with her.

“This is the only way I can think of to help you, more than I have been already.”

“I don’t know how it would help as I didn’t much like the whole experience,” he said muffledly, to his palms. “I was very young and stupid, not even twenty, and it only lasted a month, when a better offer came along and she took it. Which was understandable— she was only Dora Jordan’s understudy, and needed an actual patron if she was to make her living doing breeches roles, and I was rather relieved than otherwise. I hadn’t liked the arrangement much. I couldn’t shake the feeling that she didn’t have much interest in me, or much choice in whether she accepted me or not. Rather lowering experience all round; I decided never to repeat it.”

“Hm,” said Captain Bennet. “And that was it? I don’t... think that will help much.”

“Er, no. But I’m... you said yourself I’m not a rake. There was, er... Edith Woolvey. Lord and Lady Galman’s daughter. I was friends with her husband, Bertram, and he died during the invasion, leaving her with a newborn. I helped as I could after Shoeburyness, and thankfully, she really only wanted comfort and help making solicitors listen to her. We were friends who slept together rather than anything else, and we parted amicably when I was assigned to the mixed model division. I only ever had one long-term mistress I loved.”

This more accorded with her idea of him and she said as much. Then, after a pause, Captain Bennet asked when that had been.

“Oh, um— a little after I arrived in India, to when I became gazetted as a major and had to return to England.” He slid his hands down his face and looked determinedly at the bed canopy. “The Honorable Mrs. Sarah Howe. She was one of the Viscountess Melbourne’s daughters, though she thought her father was probably Lord Egremont rather than the Viscount Melbourne. Mr. Howe died of yellow fever not two months after coming to India to work for Sarah’s maternal uncle, Ralph Millbank, of the East India Company. She stayed on to be Mr. Milbank’s hostess and she....” Colonel Fitzwilliam hadn’t any idea exactly what to say. There was a profound awkwardness in talking about one’s past mistresses with the woman one currently loved. “Well I mucked things up there. I asked her to marry me when I was made a major, and she turned me down... and very sharply too! I can’t blame her. I hadn’t enough money to support myself, let alone a wife, no house, no expectation of inheritance... and her first husband was a rotter who put her off the whole institution entirely. I wrote to her during the invasion but didn’t hear from her again.” He kept his gaze fixed on the very dull canopy. “So, there you are, Bennet. My very dull romantic history. I don’t know if any of it is of use.”

“Well,” said Captain Bennet slowly, “that does put some things into perspective. If it makes you feel any better, Fitz, all I’ve ever managed were drunken fumblings. Every time it came to the critical moment, I recalled I had four unmarried sisters who would be ruined if it was found out I was a dragon captain. If said captain had with a lover, or worse, a bastard child, it would mean they’d never be received anywhere ever again.”

He did not wish to torment himself by asking, “Have you ever been in love, Bennet?” but found himself blurting it out anyhow.

“Yes,” she said, slowly. “I think so. It’s... it feels... felt... much different from the  _ tendre  _ I nursed for Wellington during the invasion.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam turned to look at her with an aspect of incredulity. 

“I got over it,” she said, flapping her right hand at him. “I realized Wellington was married and treated his wife badly, wrote a sad poem about it all in my journal, and then had Wollstonecraft use the journal for acid-spitting practice the next day. There ended my affection. Nothing happened— indeed, at that point where I liked him, he didn’t know me from Harcourt— and I was rather in whoops over the fact that he only flirted with me when I had no interest in him as anything other than a military colleague.” Captain Bennet’s shoulder still seemed to be paining her; she cupped her left elbow in her right hand, before saying, “We  _ were  _ talking of you. Could you... well you did think of marrying, which must mean you thought of what it was like to be married at some point. Can you draw on that? If not we— we are friends, aren’t we Fitz?”

“Yes.”

“Very good friends?”

“I did mean what I said last night, Bennet,” he said, helplessly reaching out and lightly touching her hair, pushing it behind her ear. 

Captain Bennet released her elbow and used her right hand to press his hand to her cheek. “If... if it’s too difficult to think of Mrs. Howe, could you not think of Mrs. Woolvey?”

“Bennet,” he said, stroking her cheekbone with his thumb, “when we’re together, I can’t think of anyone but you.”

It was enough and not nearly enough. He wanted so badly to kiss her as she looked up at him, uncertain, trying to parse his meaning, to leave her in no doubt as to the state of his affections. But then there came a knock on the door. Colonel Fitzwilliam reluctantly withdrew his hand and went to pull on his breeches and open the door. Captain Bennet pulled the bedclothes over her head.

Fortunately, it was Isabella. 

“I held him off as long as I could,” she said, slipping into the room, “but that bastard French captain won’t take no for an answer. You shall have to dine with him. Captain Bennet, I can help you dress— and let me see to your shoulder first.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam dressed hastily, wishing he had better clothes than the rough waistcoat of yesterday. He didn’t like to charge into battle underdressed. He knew and knew well that a uniform had no actual bearing on his success in a fight or not, but he still took comfort out of it, in its complicated, sometimes fussy orderliness against the senseless chaos of battle. 

“You are married,” said Isabella, from behind the screen, as she helped Captain Bennet into stays and petticoat. “Your name is Ricard Fernandez, Colonel, and you name is Elena Benico Fernandez, Captain. We kept it simple. Ricard, you are my son. I am Isabella Fernandez, and I owned a horse farm outside of Ronda.”

“I know horses well enough to make that work,” he said. “What happened to the farm?”

“What actually happened to my family’s farm,” said Isabella. “Nearly all horses were taken— or as they called it  _ conscripted _ — by the French, and the bulls and dragon eggs likewise. Now we eke out what we can from the home farm and the one breeding mare, and broken down old stud left to us. I told them you are not a bright boy, after you got kicked in the head while training a Hispanio for the ring, but you are good with animals and a hard worker.”

“Thank you, I suppose,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam.

“We all thought you would die from that kick,” said Isabella, “but Elena here prayed for you and kept vigil and you survived. However, her parents would not let you marry, for they were rich, and looked down upon our family as beneath them.”

“What has happened to my parents?” Captain Bennet asked.

“They’ve been brutally murdered,” said Isabella, cheerfully. “This area is full of bandits. I wanted to say the French had killed them, but Manuela told me if we wanted the French to like us, we could not blame them for the death of the bride’s family. But they failed to return home after going about collecting rents and Ricard here took you about to look for them. You found them dead on the road. After burying them, you married my son. We have a former priest in our number, he said that he decided to give you a special dispensation to marry quickly, for you had no one to help you, and no family to look after you.”

“How did we meet?” asked Colonel Fitzwilliam.

“You were neighbors and grew up together,” said Isabella, “which works as well, for my richest neighbors abandoned their lands entirely and fled to Portugal. There is no one to contradict us.” She produced from a capacious skirt pocket the sort of white cap all married women seemed to wear, and settled it over Captain Bennet’s dark hair. She tossed the white lace mantilla from last night over this, so that Captain Bennet’s face was obscured. “No Spanish woman would ever wear her mantilla like this but, eh. We must hope the French pay no attention to women’s fashion. And I have told the captain that you are so embarrassed about last night that you refuse to show your face unless you are wearing your veil.” She fussed with hairpins, and forced herself to sound deliberately nonchalant as she said, “I do not know what you were doing, to make all those French officers so mortified, but it would be good if you could repeat it.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam turned red as his uniform coat. “Er, I don’t think—”

“Or a variation of it,” said Isabella. “Come now, follow me.”

Captain Bennet, prettily attired in her pale gown and lace veil, hesitated in the doorway, before holding her right hand out to him. 

He took it, as he always had, as he always knew he would, and entwined their fingers. “It’ll be alright, Bennet,” he said, raising his eyes from their interlocked hands to her eyes. “I....”

He didn’t know what to say, how to reassure her that it would be easy to pretend to be in love with her, without admitting that he was in love with her. Colonel Fitzwilliam could think only to grasp the corner of her veil and raise it. She looked up at him solemnly, pink creeping into her cheeks.

Colonel Fitzwilliam bent and kissed her.

It was a soft brush of lips, very gentle; and yet he felt the breath stolen from him. He heard Captain Bennet’s breath hitch too. 

“What was that for?” she asked, softly, their faces still close together. “Trying to anchor your role?”

“Something like that,” he said softly. “Bennet.”

“Yes?”

He wanted badly to kiss her again, but knew to do so was to betray himself; he instead kissed her on the cheek, in a fair copy of the kiss she had given him last night.  “We may only have each other, right now, but that’s no small thing. I won’t fail you.”

“You never could,” she murmured. They might have kissed then, but Isabella cleared her throat purposefully. Colonel Fitzwilliam flushed and took a step back, the veil sliding out from his fingertips.

“I know I asked you for this, but you needn’t begin right now,” said Isabella, wryly, one hand resting on her hip. “Come on.”

The division captain had a private parlor that he was using as an officers mess. There was one round table, which could seat six comfortably, though currently there were only three people eating. The three midwingmen from the night before were standing at attention. As Isabella, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and Captain Bennet entered the room, these three bowed deeply and began stammering out apologies in bad Spanish. Captain Bennet shrank behind Colonel Fitzwilliam, her left arm cradled against her chest as if in shyness (though really, thought Colonel Fitzwilliam, because hr shoulder wasn’t fully healed), and her right hand clutching his forearm. Colonel Fitzwilliam decided to do as best he could with Captain Bennet’s admonition to link his performance to actual emotion, and glared at the midwingmen. As many times as he had told himself that it was a good thing the midwingmen had interrupted when they did, he still felt a surge of almost homicidal annoyance that he and Captain Bennet has been interrupted.

“Come in, come in,” the division captain said, standing, waving them in with a jam-covered butter knife. He had his coat off and a food-stained napkin tucked into his shirt collar, over his cravat. He looked jolly and harmless and probably intentionally so. 

Isabella leaned towards Captain Bennet and said, “I have an idea. Shake your head.”

Captain Bennet did so.

“My daughter-in-law,” said Isabella, trying to be dignified, “will not dine with the men who so dishonored her.”

“Take them out under the tents and have them flogged,” said the division captain, to one of his lieutenants. “Would the senorita— beg pardon, the senora—” with a smile and a wink that was meant to be ingratiating “—care to witness it?”

Captain Bennet shook her head. To be seen by all the Flame-de-gloire’s crew was not a good idea. 

“Then you, your husband, and your mother-in-law must join me and my second lieutenant here, Lieutenant Remillard, for breakfast. My first lieutenant will see that these malefactors are punished. Lieutenant Volanges, take these men. Twenty lashes each.”

“You earned this,” said Lieutenant Volanges sternly, marching the midwingmen out the door. One of the inn’s servant’s took away the dirty plates and set out new ones. 

“I am Captain Drouet, of the Flame-de-gloire, Destinee,” said the division captain, pulling out a chair near his. “For the lady.”

Isabella purposefully took it. 

Colonel Fitzwilliam took the place next to Lieutenant Remillard, before it could be offered to Captain Bennet. Captain Drouet drew out the chair next to Isabella and getured at Captain Bennet.

Captain Bennet inclined her head and sat down, folding her hands on her lap. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s signet ring, still on her left ring finger, caught the light from the fire and the candles on the table. 

“What a pretty ring, Senora Fernandez,” said Lieutenant Remillard, attempting to draw her out. “What is the image upon it?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam stared with horror at the golden image of Britannia and tried to think of a good explanation— wait, the infantry regiment with Britannia on their badges, they were nicknamed the Holy Boys because the Spanish mistook Britannia for— 

“The Holy Virgin!”

“Yes,” interposed Isabella. “It is an image of the Holy Virgin. My daughter-in-law, as you recall, was raised in a convent. She is very religious.”

Captain Bennet added a soft, “Si,” and lapsed into silence. 

Captain Drouet attempted to charm them out of their unease and ill-humor with every weapon in his arsenal, and several he had clearly borrowed from Beaumarchais comedies. They all refused to be charmed. Colonel Fitzwilliam kept an eye on Captain Bennet as she attempted to eat without raising her veil too much, and ended up sneaking buttered toast under her veil and keeping it there. Colonel Fitzwilliam wished he could ask for laudanum again, for in the course of this improvisational table etiquette, she had not moved her left arm, but he dared not. Instead, when she rested her left hand on the table, Colonel Fitzwilliam covered it with his own, so that she would have a good excuse not to use it. 

It would have made things easier of Captain Drouet had been a bad man, but he was not. He was courteous, deeply mortified at the behavior of his midwingmen, and determined to make it up. Lieutenant Remillard, thought bluffer and less polished, was equally eager to make up for the events of the evening prior and kept trying to draw out Captain Bennet.

“I am told this was a long desired marriage, Senora,” he said kindly.

“Yes, sir,” said Captain Bennet, quietly and meekly. 

“You were in love with your husband for a long time before he became your husband, eh?”

“I thought he would never notice,” she said, in the same soft tones. 

Lieutenant Remillard wagged his finger at Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Senor! How could you fail to notice the love of such a fine lady?”

“Um,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam.

“He was kicked in the head by a breeding mare last year,” said Isabella. 

“Ah yes,” said Captain Drouet, sorrowful. “You mentioned that. How very dreadful! I am a father myself. Two boys, Marc and Luc— though they are only seven and five. I can imagine the agonies you must have gone through, Senora. I am very glad your son has made so full a recovery.”

“Eh, well, mostly,” said Isabella, meaningfully tapping her temple. “But he is still the same sweet boy he always was, just much slower to speak. Slower at reading too, and writing. It gives him the headache. We weren’t sure he would be well enough to get on in life until a few months ago. It was beyond my hopes that he should be well enough to marry. And to marry dear Elena! Her parents were my neighbors.”

“Ah yes,” said Captain Drouet. “I am so sorry to hear about your parents, Senora Fernandez. A terrible loss. This area is so full of bandits.” He set down his knife and fork and leaned forward confidentially. “You may not believe this, Senora, but the hills are just swarming with guerillas.”

“Are they,” said Captain Bennet, in a choked voice, though she was choking back laughter rather than tears. Colonel Fitzwilliam squeezed her hand. “Forgive me, sir, it is still....”

“Yes, I imagine it is very painful. And my men have taken an event which ought to have been the bright spot in a time filled with such darkness and quite ruined it for you.”

“Say,” said Lieutenant Remillard, smacking the table, “what do you say we give these fine people a second wedding? A do over! I am sure, given all that they have suffered, the priest would not mind reading the ceremony a second time.”

“I don’t think that is in line with traditional doctrine, sir,” said Captain Bennet nervously. “It is a....”

“Sacrament,” mumbled Colonel Fitzwilliam.

“—yes and as such should happen only once in a person’s life.” 

“But you can have a wedding breakfast at any time,” said Lieutenant Remillard.

“Yes, let us continue on the wedding festivities for you,” suggested Captain Drouet. “As an apology. Music and dancing to make this rainy afternoon pass all the faster, and a good dinner for all your guests. I will pay for it myself. No, no, I insist!”

“But,” protested Isabella.

“None of us will be going anywhere in this rain,” said Captain Drouet, gesturing to the shuttered windows. The grayish light was weak, but the pounding sound of the rain and the continual rumbling of thunder spoke eloquently as to the state of the weather. 

“Elena,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, to Captain Bennet, in a purposeful mumble, “will you do me the honor of dancing with me?”

“I will dance with no one else,” she declared, loudly and pointedly. 

The guerrillas were careful to support this, to make sure that no French aviator ever got close enough to Captain Bennet to see her face, or to catch the fact that she did not move her left arm if she could help it, and drank tea or laudanum in water rather than wine. Colonel Fitzwilliam lasted all of one dance before he fell into the elaborate, tipsy fantasy he had concocted for himself at Salamanca.  

Ricard Fernandez, the lower class horse breeder who had been kicked in the head, was not perhaps the fantasy self he would have created, but still. He was a version of himself that hadn’t made a career of trying to find the least awful choice in a mad welter of bullets and only bad options. He was a version of himself that could love Captain Bennet with impunity; indeed a version that had to. He had no elaborate plan of seduction, but he knew his glances and his touches alike lingerd; that he bent towards her oftener than the dance required and his fingers trailed against her bare wrists and palms and fingertips whenever they could. To dance with a woman required taking her hand and linking arms, and they neither of them had gloves. An afternoon of this did not rob any spark of joy from the touch of her bare hand to his. 

“It is nice to be doing something,” said Captain Bennet, in Spanish, as their hands tangled together again, at the end of a dance, as if this was the natural  resting state for both of them, “to be active. I would have gone mad if we’d had nothing to do.”

There was a crack of thunder that rattled the windows. 

When they had eaten, informally, with many people standing up, for there were not tables and chairs enough for all, Captain Drouet siddled over to them and said, “If you go up now, you will see a few gifts from us— and we can assure you that you will not be disturbed.” He winked at Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Enjoy yourselves.”

It was better to go up, though Colonel Fitzwilliam realized, ‘There’s still only one bed.’

Another night of sleeping in the same bed with Captain Bennet, after... everything. He swallowed. The Salamanca fantasy had always ended with Captain Bennet declaring her mutual affection on the ballroom floor. Now that he knew how she might actually feel under him, after an afternoon and evening spent indulging other fantasies—

He cleared his throat. It was fine! Everything was fine. He could do this.  

He took Captain Bennet’s hand and went up. 

The bed was strewn with rose petals, there was champagne cooling in a bucket of ice on the table, and there was another bath full of steaming water before the fire. 

“Hm,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, locking the door. 

“A second bath,” said Captain Bennet. “What luxury! You know, at certain points on campaign, I do tell myself that I shall have a bath every single day. Do you want to go first this time? It’s only fair.”

This way he could perhaps avoid seeing Captain Bennet bathing. He agreed to it, then tucked himself into bed (brushing away rose petals with annoyance), and applied himself to his novel again. It was monstrously tedious and yet he couldn’t sleep. He tried to feign sleep when Captain Bennet climbed into bed with him.

“Goodnight Fitz,” she said, softly. 

“Goodnight Bennet,” he said into the pillow. “Is the chair jammed under the door?”

“Yes.” After a moment she said, “I think we fooled them.”

“I think so, yes.”

There fell an awkward silence. Colonel Fitzwilliam suddenly and vividly recalled what had happened in this bed, probably on these sheets, the evening previous, and suddenly had a new problem. He sighed heavily. 

Captain Bennet shifted, nearly pulling away the bed linens, searching for a comfortable spot— Colonel Fitzwilliam managed to lightly tease her about division of resources and pull back his share of the bedclothes— before she said, “Fitz?”

“Yes?”

“How likely are we to reunite with the division, in your opinion?”

“It depends on several factors I cannot account for,” he said, after a minute. “I suppose it all depends on when this bloody thunderstorm ends, and if it ends before the French suspect anything.”

“Oh God,” said Captain Bennet softly. “What would happen to Wollstonecraft if we didn't return? My poor girl, she lost my aunt. To lose two captains in five years....”

He knew it was a terrible idea, but Colonel Fitzwilliam turned onto his stomach and pushed himself onto his forearms, so that he could face her, without her noticing just how exciting he still found the whole situation.

Captain Bennet was sitting up, hugging her knees to her chest, the clean waves of her hair hanging in a dark curtain down her linen-clad back. 

“Bennet,” he said, gently. “There's no point in worrying about it when nothing can be done. You had much better go to sleep.”

“I know,” she said, frustrated, “but I cannot stop thinking long enough to be tired. How Wollstonecraft must be feeling runs through my head like a greyhound ‘round a track. I could not bear it if I never saw Wollstonecraft again. Especially if the last memory she had was of me falling from her.” She pressed the palms of her hands to her eyes and exhaled slowly. “And there is no one to take care of my poor girl. Lydia hasn’t any children yet. Maybe one of my uncle Gardiner’s daughters could be brought in, but I cannot imagine my aunt Gardiner allowing her children to leave her quite so young as my mother allowed me to leave her. God, I ought to have taken care of this before now.”

He tried to distract her from these worries by asking how she came to be Wollstonecraft’s second captain. “You were named for Captain Elizabeth Gardiner, who was Wollstonecraft’s first captain, were you not?”

“I was.”

“Was your service then planned from birth?”

“No, not at all. My mother named me after her as a way of honoring her sister and putting me in the way of presents. I doubt my mother would have chosen this life for me, if the pressures of circumstance had not convinced her of its necessity. Well that and my insisting I would be a dragon captain and absolutely refusing to give way.”

“And here I was, thinking you were like me— marked out for a specific career due to birth order. We could have become a second coalition— a coalition of the second born.”

The joke distracted her from her worries well enough; Captain Bennet smiled and said, “I do not think there was any thought of my being a dragon captain until I was about seven. I still remember when I first knew I would go into the corps. I shall remember it until I die.” 

“Will you tell me of it?”

Her smile and gaze were soft; she had retreated into what appeared to be a favorite memory. “I was about six, I think; we were in London, staying with my mother’s brother and we went to see Captain Gardiner, my Aunt Elizabeth, at the London covert. I wasn't supposed to do more than stick close to my mother and Jane, and watch Mary and Kitty while Mama showed Lydia to Aunt Elizabeth. Kitty wandered off. She was at that awful stage of toddlerhood where as soon as you set her down she would follow anybody who moved decisively enough. Jane was terrified to go out among all the dragons and aviators. Mama had warned us all that it was  _ excessively dangerous  _ and to be alone on a dragon covert was instant death for a lady. Mama always told  _ me _ I never behaved like a lady should, so I thought I would be fine. I ran after Kitty. She had gotten outdoors somehow, chasing after a courier— and Wollstonecraft had stopped her and was scolding her. ‘Human hatchlings ought not to wander so far from their dams in this fashion, not with the mids at sword practice.’” This in quite a good imitation of Wollstonecraft’s voice. Captain Bennet looked to the side and, spotting a tangle in her hair, set to idly pulling it apart. “In my primer and the La Fontaine poems I read in the schoolroom, all animals talked. I hadn't yet learned that books aren't always straightforwardly true. I wasn't astonished. Or frightened really. I was just....” She pulled a strand free and studied it. “I felt the way I think Catholics must in cathedrals. It felt as if I was where I needed to be, in order to see where I fit into the grander scheme of life. Wollstonecraft lowered her head when she saw I wasn't about to run off screaming. Her pupil was the size of my entire body. I looked in it and saw myself reflected there, as if I were looking into a mirror. But it was so much more than that. That is... I felt  _ seen  _ for the first time.”

The rain hissed down into the fire; a log crumbled into ash. Below there came the muffled strains of a cotillion.Colonel Fitzwilliam recalled the moment where he knew he must go aloft on his own after Mr. Wickham, holding out his hand to Wollstonecraft, and seeing himself reflected in her eyes.

“I remember,” Captain Bennet said, her voice low and sincere, “Wollstonecraft blinked. But my reflection did not change. It’s the first image I still have of myself— the image I call up whenever sometime tells me to picture myself.” The knot came undone. The ends flowed through her fingers. “One of the officers— Lieutenant Fairfax, who unfortunately died at the Battle of the Nile; his daughter is first lieutenant on Laconia— he had Kitty and was telling her not to cry. Wollstonecraft had frightened her. And you know Wollstonecraft— she was characteristically blunt when pointing this out and then asked me if I was afraid. I said no, there was no reason to be. She hadn't hurt my sister; in fact, she had stopped my sister from getting further hurt. Wollstonecraft asked for my name and I said Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn; she said she was Wollstonecraft of the London covert. And that we had an acquaintance in common— my aunt, Elizabeth Gardiner, was her captain. My mother and aunt came running out then, Mama going to Kitty in hysterics, and Aunt Elizabeth stopping dead on her tracks as soon as she saw me. Aunt Elizabeth and Wollstonecraft smiled at the same time and my aunt asked if I might like to go flying. I was climbing up Wollstonecraft’s harness before they finished speaking. I have no idea how my mother allowed it. I think she must have fainted. But oh!” She closed her eyes and smiled. “I haven't the words for how  _ wonderful  _ that first flight was! If you could distill joy into a single moment, it would be the first time Aunt Bess took me flying. All the limits, all the tethers of ordinary life, the things my mother had tried to use to tie me down safely—to keep me from harm, I mean— they all just...  _ snapped.  _ I could no longer accept that I couldn't do something because someone told me so. If I could defy  _ gravity _ , what  _ couldn't  _ I do?” She opened her eyes, the joy of that flight, that first taste of freedom, the memory of finding where she belonged still shining in the smile she turned upon him.

‘Oh help,’ thought Colonel Fitzwilliam, and felt himself fall irrevocably, stupidly in love with Captain Elizabeth Bennet. 

“Rather sentimental, I know.”

“ _ I’m _ rather sentimental, so I liked it,” he managed. 

“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” she teased, “I really think you were quite impressed by my little story.” 

“I am always impressed by you,” he admitted.

“Are you?” she asked, startled and pleased. 

He looked her in the eye and smiled; he felt it came out lopsided but he could at least be sincere when he said, “I have never been more impressed by anyone, Lizzy. I hold you very high not only in esteem, but affection.”

Captain Bennet turned to him, letting go of her knees. The dim glow of the firelight caressed the right side of her, tracing its way down the spill of her hair, the curve of her bare muscled arm, the rise of her hip under the bed linens. “I wonder if it will bear up under questioning.”

“Oh it most certainly will. I don’t think there’s anyone, man or woman, whose company I value more than yours.”

“Very noble and all but—” She colored suddenly. “I know this isn’t the affection you mean, but I don’t think I shall ever have a better opening. Fitz, I’ve fancied you terribly for months now. I may even be a little in love with you.”

His mind reeled. “What? Since when?”

“Since I saw you sitting at Wollstonecraft’s neck by yourself in your shirtsleeves, looking perfectly at ease to be flying on your own. You’d... I don’t know why! I suppose it was— I suppose it occurred to me then how brave you are, and how quietly and modestly you go about displaying it. And it was a marker of how much you were willing to change. I still remember how hard you tried to conceal your own fear the first time I offered you a hand up onto Wollstonecraft’s back, without being able to manage it. And there you were greeting  _ me _ , looking aggravatingly handsome while doing so....”

He buried his face in his pillow and laughed, managing to get out, after a moment, “Bennet, I'm a damned fool. I’ve fancied you very much since our meeting up formally in Lisbon. That is—it was at the ball to celebrate finishing the Lines of Torres Vedras that I realized the full extent of my preference. Since then it’s been a headlong slide into love—one I’ve been utterly able to halt. I’m terribly in love with you.”

When he raised his head from the pillow, Lizzy exclaimed, blushing, “Oh Good God! I had no idea! Here I am, making myself miserable about you and dissecting to pieces everything you say to me that's even mildly flirtatious—”

“No idea! Lieutenant Lucas told me at that awful do at the Royal Pavilion in Brighton— rather pointedly, in fact—that men were always misinterpreting your liveliness for flirtation because you were so pretty and your manner was so playful.”

“Well, I could hardly confide in Lieutenant Lucas, could I? How on earth would that conversation go? ‘By the by, Charlotte, I’ve fallen for my counterpart in the division, thus cocking up our working relationship, and endangering our mission and the success of not just our division but all integrated ones in the English armed services?’”

Colonel Fitzwilliam pushed himself away from the pillow, shaking his head. “God, Bennet, I must have asked myself the same thing a thousand times.”

“You know, it’s a question that I don’t find myself asking now,” said Captain Bennet, smiling down at him. “After all this, I feel fairly confident saying that being in love will not ruin our ability to work together effectively! And I... I know we both keep telling ourselves we’ll get out of here alive but I don’t... there seems to me an equal chance we won’t—”

“My dear,” he said, a little helplessly, sitting up. “It’s not—”

“Let’s not lie about it, Fitz,” she said.

He extended his hand to her; she took it, interleaved their fingers. 

“Well, let’s not then, but... my dear, whether we live or die, it doesn’t change the fact that I do love you. It’s such a relief to admit to it out loud! I just... I thought there wasn’t any hope for me. I wasn’t even sure you liked men.”

Captain Bennet laughed helplessly. “I haven’t a very high opinion of men, that is true, but  _ you _ , Fitz! You’re different; you always have been to me. You’re one of the few people I know who always listens, who always questions— you are one of the only true gentlemen I know. God Fitz, what a relief it is to say out loud that I am falling in love with you!”

Colonel Fitzwilliam felt full up with love, aching with the unexpected joy flowing through him. He laughed too, for no other reason than the fact he was happy. “For two relatively intelligent people, we can certainly be damn fools.”

He raised their entwined hands and kissed her scarred knuckles. “Well, Fitz,” Captain Bennet said, playfully, “I am glad this misunderstanding was so satisfactorily reconciled. And so easily too! It only took being flung from dragonback, spraining my shoulder, getting trapped behind enemy lines with little to no hope of rescue, and having to masquerade as a married couple while surrounded by French aviators!”

He turned her hand over and kissed her palm, the rapid pulse under the translucent skin of her wrist. Colonel Fitzwilliam rested his cheek against her curled fingers. Captain Bennet unfurled her fingers against his jawline, and Colonel Fitzwilliam could have sworn he felt her touch resonating through him, like an organ chord echoing through a cathedral.

He had never before felt a sense of such alertness without alarm; he had the feeling that his consciousness lived somewhere just under his skin. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s gaze drifted from her eyes to her lips. The space between himself and Captain Bennet seemed trifling, an insignificant gap, one easily bridged. He leaned forward. 

Captain Bennet— Lizzy, he reminded himself, tilted her face up to meet his.

Almost afraid to frightened her, to crush so new, so delicate an understanding with rough handling, he kissed her softly, sweetly.

She had other ideas, and turned his face so as to kiss him more fully. She was eager for him, more eager than he had anticipated, and Colonel Fitzwilliam kissed her back with perhaps unseemly enthusiasm. He had wanted this too long to be circumspect; the warmth of her strong body, the almost ferocity of her kiss, even the slight annoyance of her long hair, falling into his face, made him restless with desire. 

She moved her arms slowly, careful of her shoulder, but edged closer until they were pressed up against each other. He was a little dazed, still, that she wanted him. She wanted him! Every movement of her lips on his, every shared, labored breath, every shift that brought her closer against him declared it. He became almost glad they had fallen off Wollstonecraft. 

“Kissing like this,” he managed to get out, as she paused to impatiently push her hair out of the way, “may not be the wisest thing to do when sharing a bed.”

“Perhaps,” she replied, still gripping a handful of his shirt, “but I really do not think I can be content  _ just _ to kiss you.” Captain Bennet looked down between them, fighting a smile. “I think you are at least a little interested in that.”

He colored violently and began to say, “I beg your pardon—”

“For something that I am sure will please me a great deal?” Captain Bennet asked, eyes merry. “Let me see it, at least, before you apologize for it.”

This was possibly a very bad idea, but Colonel Fitzwilliam drew his shirt off over his head and flung it at the dressing screen. He was generally a little embarrassed at this point in intimate encounters. His profession had left its marks upon him. But Captain Bennet was a soldier too; his scars could hardly shock her.

Indeed, Captain Bennet looked at him with frank appreciation, her gaze sweeping over his chest and down to her primary object of interest. “Is it for me?” she asked, with the incongruous air of a lady receiving an unexpected token from an admirer.

He looked heavenward. “I think you are well aware it is.” 

“What a very fine present indeed,” she said, taking him in hand.

Even his swift intake of breath was stolen from him when she leaned in and began kissing him again. Her touch was light, idly curious, and was driving him absolutely mad. Colonel Fitzwilliam had half a mind to rip her shift off, damn all the consequences, but the rather pedestrian thought that she did not have a second shift caused this idea to float away. He still plucked at the hem of her shift, inched it about her hips, pushing it towards her rib cage.

“Oh right,” she said, breaking away. “You'll have to help me. My shoulder—”

“Yes— ah....” he studied the hem of the shift and said, “Raise your right arm, my dear, and I think I can ease it off your left.” Colonel Fitzwilliam pulled up her shift, ostensibly pausing to let her pull her arm through the sleeve, but really to enjoy the view, and gently moved the fabric over her head. Her hair trailed slowly through, tangling in the linen, as he gently eased it down her left arm. 

“Not too painful?” he asked.

Lizzy glanced at her shoulder as she moved her arm (he watched, fascinated, the flex of her strong bicep) and curled and uncurled her fingers. Her hands and forearms were nearly the same brown as her face, but faded into paleness at her elbows. “It twinges a bit, but if I am careful of moving it, I daresay it will not trouble us unduly.”

Without much thinking about it, he reached out to trace the spearhead of tanned skin that pointed downwards between her breasts, from where her shirt gaped open when she abandoned her neckcloth.

Captain Bennet shivered at his touch, and looked up from her arm to smile at him archly. “I suppose I am not a perfect antidote?”

“Far from that,” he got out hoarsely. “My God, I cannot think of a time I ever wanted a woman as much as I want you.” 

She flushed up with pleasure, at the compliment, certainly, and (he hoped) at the promises conveyed by his tone. “Flatterer.”

He flattened his palm over where he assumed her heart was, allowing his thumb to trace the inner curve of her breast. “I speak all in earnest. Lizzy— can I call you Lizzy?— I have been driving myself mad with longing for you since we kissed in the tap room yesterday.”

This request and this tribute pleased and flustered her; she bent her head to look at his hand, long dark hair spilling over her shoulder, and said, “Yes, call me Lizzy, do. But I warn you, for all the libertine talk of the corps, I have— it is only talk for me. Now our clothes are off, I have no idea what I am doing.” She blushed a little and cleared her throat. “Richard— I am relying on you.”

He felt absurdly pleased and trailed his hand down to cup one of her breasts; she inhaled sharply and let out a soft, pleased, “Oh!” 

“It's not an activity too difficult to learn,” he said, his voice sounding unsteady even to his own ears. “Really quite simple, my dear. If you like what I'm doing, let me know and I'll continue. If you don't, let me know and I'll stop.”

“I did like it when you kissed me.”

Time, which had so pressed on him, jagged and sharp, slowed and smoothed. In a moment of what felt like infinite sweetness, they kissed and kissed again. He moved from her lips to her cheek to the side of her neck. This Lizzy obviously liked, and Colonel Fitzwilliam rather indulged himself. He paused only to build up a little slope of pillows and ask Lizzy to lay back. She did so, instinctively opening her legs; he eagerly shifted to sit between them. It was an exquisite torment. He brushed accidentally against her entrance as he settled into the cradle of her thighs; she was already slick with desire.

Lizzy let out a breathy, “oh!” that turned into a whimper of pleasure as he bent to kiss her right breast. He had long been aware— painfully aware— of how lovely her light figure was, and spent many hours sternly abjuring himself not to dwell on it. It was more than relief that he now did so, tracing the slope of her breast, lingering at its peak, to Lizzy’s evident approval, moving to the other in almost a spirit of scientific inquiry, to see if the effect would be the same. It was. And Lizzy was more responsive than he could have dreamed. She was unashamed and uninhibited, achingly sweet in her breathless delight. If her story hadn't done it, thought Colonel Fitzwilliam, this would have been enough for him to fall for her permanently.

“God, Fitz,” she said, “to think we could have been doing this for months if we'd only managed to spit out that we liked each other.”

“Best make up for lost time,” he agreed, kissing down her taut, muscled stomach, being particularly gentle at the scars crossing diagonally down to her hip.

“And what exactly are you doing now?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam cleared his throat and put a hand to each of her spread thighs. He felt oddly shy. “Lizzy, might I— might I kiss you here?” 

“Ah,” Lizzy said, blushing deeply. “Well, I— I do admit to some curiosity. Admiral Roland’s told me often enough about how pleasant it is.” Then, when he had reached his target, she said, “ _ Oh.  _ Pleasant isn't quite the right word.”

He raised his head, a little uncertain. “Not the right word?”

“Not nearly strong enough,” she said, pushing his head back down. “Just a little to the right—oh yes, there. Oh God, Fitz, that's  _ incredible. _ Please don't stop.”

He was more than happy to oblige her. There were few sexual acts he enjoyed more than this, or that would excite him as reliably; he was very near to his own peak when she pressed against him, squirming against his hold on her thighs and begged him to go faster. Colonel Fitzwilliam applied himself more vigorously to his task, pressing a hand down on her pelvis, half to keep her in place and half because doing so had always driven his partners wild in the past, and was rewarded with the incredibly satisfying feeling of her grinding against his mouth, legs shaking and back arching. She cried out; then fell bonelessly into the bed. Bliss it was indeed, bringing not just any woman, but the one with whom he'd fallen so dizzyingly in love, to the trembling apex of pleasure. Colonel Fitzwilliam moved to gently nuzzle the inside of her thigh (and covertly wipe off his face) as she lay back, limp and satiated. “Good for you, Bennet?”

“ _ Good _ ?” She burst out laughing, though it was a breathless sound. “I keep bumping up against the limitations of English. Oh Fitz! You darling man, I haven't words. And call me Lizzy, do.”

He felt  _ extremely _ pleased with himself. It nigh on bordered on smugness. “Glad to hear it. Or not to hear it, as the case may be.”

“Will you make love to me now?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam wanted to so badly he almost doubted if he should. “Are you sure you want me to?”

“I might die if you don't,” she said, over-dramatically. Then, uncertainly: “Why, do you not want to?”

“I have honestly never wanted anything more in my life,” Colonel Fitzwilliam replied. “It's only....” He still had his hand on her left thigh; he squeezed gently, in reassurance. “You're a virgin, my dear.”

“Is that a problem?”

“It's not... particularly the act of a gentleman to despoil virgins. And you may... I mean, I don’t want you to regret—“

Lizzy pushed herself up on her good elbow and looked heavenward. “God. Admiral Roland did try and warn me that all that honor guff would addle your wits, but I hadn’t realized it would go this far. Fitz, I _want_ _you_. I want it to be you, the first time I lay with someone. I know it would be impossible for you _not_ to be thoughtful about it all, and even if it does hurt a little, I know that you'll do everything in your power to keep it from hurting unnecessarily.” She managed to push herself up and touched his cheek. Her tone was affectionate and teasing when she said, “And besides all that, I do believe that I love you.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam leaned involuntarily into her touch and studied Lizzy’s face. “You won't regret it?”

“I'll regret it if we don't.” She blushed and, after a moment, admitted to fantasizing about his making love to her for at least two months.

“Really?” Colonel Fitzwilliam felt his expression was foolish in the extreme, but couldn't stop smiling.

“Yes. Since you rolled us out of the way of a ladder being pushed off the wall and then protected me from the howizter shell. I felt incredibly stupid for that being the inciting incident, but, um—”

This event had involuntarily featured in a lot of the disquieting dreams Colonel Fitzwilliam pretended he didn't have. He couldn't quite bring himself to admit it out loud, but his blushes bore such eloquent testimony to this, Lizzy laughed and teased him, “Fitz, please? Don't make me beg. I'm not used to it, and I daresay I won't be any good.”

He realized he had wanted to be persuaded, to have every flimsy reason he shouldn't shredded to bits; he wanted and wanted badly to know Lizzy wanted him as much as he wanted and had wanted her. He sat back on his knees and observed her flushed all over and spread before him. Colonel Fitzwilliam could no longer resist. He bent to kiss her neck, to trace the line of her tan, indulging himself in the enjoyment of her breasts, luxuriating in her sighs, as he settled himself between her spread legs once more. 

“God, Lizzy,” he said, a little raggedly, sliding against her slickness. “You feel so good already.”

She swore and moved her hips. The friction was exquisite, bordering almost on the unbearable. He put his left hand to her thigh, spreading her legs farther, unable to resist the impulse to intimately touch her again. Lizzy let out a soft, pleased noise, and did not seem to particularly notice or mind as he fumbled to translate what he’d discovered she liked from one form of touch to another. Dear God, was he nervous? 

“I do like that,” Lizzy said dreamily, as he tentatively moved two fingers inside her, while still using his left thumb to rub circles, “but Fitz, darling, I want—“

“I just don’t want to hurt you,” he said, apprehensively. He  _ was _ nervous. “I love you, Lizzy, and I....”

Lizzy blushed as he slid his fingers out and leaned his right forearm by her head. “Fitz, I don’t expect perfection. And I should hope you don’t either, since I more or less flung myself at you while exclaiming, ‘I don’t know what I’m doing!’”

Her hair was so beautifully spread upon the pillow; he touched it reverently, already feeling less anxious.

“I shall let you know if something isn’t working, and then you’ll stop and we’ll try something else. Am I not your partner in  _ this,  _ as I am in everything else?”

“Yes,” he said, and remembered again why he loved her. 

Lizzy had her right arm bent back, resting against the pillow, fingers curved into her palm, but she gently put her left hand to his shoulder. “Well then?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam kissed her and used his own left hand to guide himself into her. He felt only slight resistance as he entered her, and paused before he was very far, at her swift intake of breath.

He shifted so that he could entwine the fingers of his left hand with her right. Lizzy gripped onto him, with gratitude and anxiety mixed. Colonel Fitzwilliam pressed in slowly, anxiously watching her face. Lizzy closed her eyes. She was frowning, a little. 

Colonel Fitzwilliam leaned down to kiss the line between her eyebrows and slid in until his hips were flush against hers. He groaned softly. He had dreamt of this, in dreams he really should not have had, not over a fellow officer, dreams he had tried to forget when he woke, panting, as embarrassed as he was aroused, but God! His imagination had not supplied how wetly, how warmly she gripped tight about him, how soft her hair was against his fingertips, the sweet rise of her breasts against his chest. He bent to kiss her cheek. “I love you, Lizzy.”

She opened her eyes and looked up, pinched expression easing as she searched his face for reassurance and affection.

He felt he could not have hidden his feelings now, even if he wished to. 

“You mean it,” Lizzy said, with not quite her usual confidence.

He pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “I do. I love you.”

She moved her hand to the back of his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. Colonel Fitzwilliam held himself very still, as he tried to pour all the deep, untalked of love he felt into his kiss. “God how I love you,” he whispered, kissing her again. It still astonished him that this was happening, that Captain Elizabeth Bennet was beneath and around him, that she had so willingly given herself to him, that she should so happily and instantly accept all he offered of himself. 

He began to move slightly, for the urgency of desire would not allow him to be still, but his concern for her would not allow him to thrust as deeply he wished. “Is this alright?” Colonel Fitzwilliam asked, kissing her face a little wildly— her upper lip, the tip of her nose, her eyebrow.

“Yes,” she said. “It— it doesn’t feel like what you did before, but it doesn’t feel bad. But Admiral Roland did warn me it was like any other exercise. You don’t get the full benefit from it until after you’d tried it a dozen or so times and your muscles were more accustomed to the movement.” She looked up at him, her blush spreading over chest and neck and cheek. “Does it— am I doing alright?”

“God yes, Lizzy,” he said, raggedly. “Kiss me,  _ please _ .”

She did, almost shyly— Colonel Fitzwilliam realized, startled, that this was the first time she had kissed him on the lips; had initiated it— and it nearly undid him. ‘When did I become such a romantic?’ he asked himself, before saying, “Lizzy, I’m so close—“

“You can— you don’t have to pull out,” she said hesitantly, as he continued to rock against her. 

“We might  _ not _ die tomorrow,” he said, teasingly, nipping a little at the side of her neck. “Have a little faith, Lizzy, that we might live to experience consequences of this evening.”

“Then,” she said, with a deep blush, “I should happily bear them.”

The idea of Lizzy’s having his child engaged some sort of primal instinct he wasn’t aware he had, and Colonel Fitzwilliam drove into her with increasing desperation until his release washed over him. 

He swore and bowed his head, so that his forehead rested on Lizzy’s, feeling the successive waves of orgasm wash through him; shuddering from the raw intimacy of what they had done and confessed to each other. “Goddamn,” he said, out of breath. 

“Good?” Lizzy asked, a little anxiously.

“Bloody incredible,” he said promptly, kissing the tip of her nose. “I could die happy.”

She wrapped her legs around his waist, holding him tightly. “I couldn’t. I’m more selfish than you, I cannot bear to think we should have only one evening of this. I want so many I lose count of them.”

 


	9. In which it finally stops raining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in updating and replying to comments-- got distracted with another fic! Hopefully will get back to replying and regular updates soon-ish.

There was always something wondrous about first times, but this— Colonel Fitzwilliam wasn’t sure he had the words for it. The closest parallel he could think of was the first time he’d been allowed to ride on his own at a gallop: that sense of sheer exhilaration, followed, at its end, by a contented weariness and an immeasurable satisfaction that wound its way through his thoughts like a cat greeting its owner. There was a certain sense of rightness too, of discovering some aspect of himself hitherto only guessed at, but now fully realized. In such a blissful mood as this, it was impossible not to look at Lizzy with his heart in his eyes. 

“You can’t possibly want me again, that quickly,” said Lizzy, emerging from behind the dressing screen, where she had been sponging herself off.

“Why not?” Colonel Fitzwilliam asked, with an appreciative look. She was clad only in the glow of the firelight and her own tangled, unbound hair. 

She blushed and laughed and said, “Well I— I heard there’s a point, after the man... finishes... where he really cannot go again for a time.”

“Where on earth did you hear such things?” Colonel Fitzwilliam asked, mock-scandalized. 

Lizzy’s blush deepened. “Where else? Aerial officers gossiping ‘round the campfire.”

“I was going to guess Admiral Roland.”

“She has certainly complained of it in the past. Women don’t have one of those.”

“Bennet,” he said delightedly. “Are you trying to hint at something?”

“I— what? No, no! I’m not—”

“I’m teasing you, Bennet. I mean, Lizzy. Though I wouldn’t be opposed if you were hinting at something....”

“You— you’re ridiculous,” she spluttered and more or less tackled him, the bed linens fluttering up as if she had plunged into the water, and the fleeting attempt at wrestling turned amorous. It was still new and exhilarating to be holding each other like this, without barriers, though Colonel Fitzwilliam privately thought that he would never be able to touch Lizzy without having it thrill through him. 

Colonel Fitzwilliam couldn’t resist pinning her down and kissing her before saying, “I am not sure I realized before now that the sex of the officer doesn’t matter; campfire talk is always going to revolve around the three ‘f’s.”

“Three ‘f’s?”

“Food, fighting, and fornication.”

Lizzy laughed. “I think the last is  _ probably  _ not referred to as fornication when you are with your officers.”

“It’s how I refer to it,” he replied, smiling. “ _ I  _ was raised to be a gentleman.”

“And I an aviator,” she replied. “You can call it what it is; I shan't be offended.” 

“The Aerial Corps,” he said, trying to fake offense, rather than show the thrill he was a little ashamed to admit he felt at her words, “has some shocking low standards of behavior for its officers. Such language, captain!”

“Pit of libertinage, the Corps,” she agreed, moving to kiss him. This they did leisurely, without the desperation of before, taking the time to introduce each other to their preferences, pausing to take in a sigh, or enjoy a blush, to investigate a scar and ask after its provenance. 

“I told you about those I think,” Lizzy said, as he traced a pattern of faint pink streaks across her lower ribs, cutting diagonally across her stomach and over her left hip. “I was laid up for a month and a half at Longbourn, and Mama tried to convince Aunt Bess I should be released from service because I had been so badly injured. All rot! The harness was a little uncomfortable the first few times I put it back on, but I don't even feel these now.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam twisted about so that he could kiss the scars, not entirely sure why he felt the impulse to do so again, but enjoying the experience of kissing his way across her taut, muscled stomach to her hipbone. “How did you get these?” he asked, when he had reached their end point. “A Fleur-de-Nuit surprise you?”

Lizzy was trembling, and replied in somewhat breathless accents, “A— a flock of Poux-de-Ciel went for our harness straps, and shook off half the officers. I fell in the path of Excidium’s acid spray before falling into the Channel. It was actually good that I did; the water kept the acid from eating through the skin entirely.” 

Colonel Fitzwilliam felt a little smug about managing to so affect her and drew himself up to lay on his side next to her; Lizzy, looking pinkly self-conscious, rolled him over so that he was on his back, and traced his own scars. 

She walked two fingers over a cluster of white, star-shaped scars on his right shoulder and upper arm. “Grapeshot?”

“Yes, from the French invasion. Nothing as exciting as falling into the Channel; some artillery men just aimed for the arm I was using to raise my sword to give orders.”

She paused at a deep horizontal slash under these, on his triceps. “Saber cut?”

“Ah, that's more exciting—my first battlefield injury, as a matter-of-fact. I was brushed by one of Tipu Sultan’s Mysore rockets. I was sixteen and terrified. The only thing holding me upright was the pole bearing the regimental colors. I was rather stupid then; I hadn't realized I'd been given the easiest task one can give an ensign, since said ensign is surrounded by the regiment’s most experienced sergeants, and most soldiers would and do die before seeing their regimental colors in enemy hands. Instead of rejoicing in the easiness of my task, I was terrified out of my wits at the enormity of it, when out of the smoke came a sword attached to an iron tube full of gunpowder. I was so amazed, I didn't even notice it had hit me. I really thought that Tipu Sultan had swordsmen so skilled they could just hurl blades through the air at the speed of cannonballs.”

She laughed at him but pressed a kiss to her fingertips, and her fingertips to the scar before saying, “Poor Fitzbilly!”

He made a vinegar face. 

“No?”

“Only my mother regularly calls me that, and I’m really not inclined to think of my mother at present.”

“Fair enough. How on earth did you get your cousins to quit calling you Fitzbilly?”

“The Fitzwilliams aren't really keen on nicknames; they’re a dreadfully formal lot. And all the Pitts found Fitzbilly to be something of a questionable joke on my mother’s part. My Uncle Billy found it particularly exasperating. I've always been ‘Richard,’ when not ‘Fitzwilliam.’ Complicated things a bit when, two years after I was born, my aunt Anne named her son ‘Fitzwilliam Darcy.’”

Lizzy looked pained. “I almost feel sorry for your cousin. Fitzwilliam Darcy! Heavens! Give a man a name like that and there isn't any way he  _ won't  _ turn out haughty and taciturn. Did I ever tell he wrote me a very lengthy, very formal note of apology? I felt rather low about challenging him to a duel.” 

“Darcy makes terrible first impressions,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, “but he's really a decent sort once you get past the layers of reserve and sarcasm.”

She looked skeptical.

“Well,” he temporized, “to the few people he cares about. Did he—”

“Oh he accepted the necessity of my service, but lamented it, and absolved me by accusing my aunt and grandfather of offenses against decency. I don't suppose it would ever occur to him that my aunt was happy in their service and would never choose another life?”

“Would you?”

“I could be happy anywhere,” she replied, thoughtfully, “but having known what it is to fly, I do not think I could bear to remain on the ground. But come—” said she, straddling him,“—we can entertain ourselves with better things than musing on Mr. Darcy’s disapproval.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam very much agreed with this, and took advantage of this new liberty allowed him. 

“Richard—oh that does feel odd.”

“Sorry,” he said, sitting up, and stuffing the pillows behind his back. “I can see what I’m doing better this way.”

“No, no, I meant calling you Richard felt odd,” she said shyly. “I had thought of you as ‘Richard’ once or twice—in my head, I mean— but I’ve always  _ really  _ thought of you as ‘Fitz.’ Once we were friends, that is, and I knew what a thoroughly decent person you are.”

“Why not just call me ‘Fitz,’ then, darling?” he suggested, brushing her hair out of her face. This was a little difficult; it was tangled, and longer than anticipated. 

“It still seems a little unreal to me, Fitz. I’ve wanted this so long.” 

“I’m here, Lizzy,” he said, his other hand still tangled in her hair. “I’m yours. I always will be.”

“I wasn’t sure anyone could really love me, like this,” she admitted. “It.... oh Fitz, you have no idea how wonderful you are. It’s awfully vain of me but will you tell me again...?”

“I love you,” he said fiercely. “I love you, Lizzy Bennet. I’ll say it however many times you need until you believe it, and by that point I’ll be in such a habit of saying it I won’t be able to stop.”

“Never,” she said sincerely, holding tight. “I’ll never tire of it. I’m yours too, Fitz. You know that, I’m sure but—”

“Oh my love,” he said, heartfelt. Colonel Fitzwilliam molded himself to her, reminded of that bit in  _ The Symposium _ he had always found hilarious. 

“Why are you laughing?” Lizzy asked, before tagging on a hesitant, “My dear?”

“Were you ever forced to read  _ The Symposium _ , darling?”

“Um... no. My aunt had me learn Greek from Herodotus. I liked the  _ Histories _ for all the odd animals. I was so disappointed to learn that there aren’t really winged snakes in Egypt. I thought they might be a sort of miniature dragon, like cats are miniature lions.”

“Every cat I’ve ever met certainly would agree with that analogy,” he replied. “But in it Aristophanes gives this myth of the... people ball. That’s not a splendid translation, but people apparently used to be completely round balls with four legs, four arms, and two faces.”

Lizzy raised her face, looking amused. “How did they move?”

“Turning cartwheels, or spinning around like their parents, the planets.”

“Fitz!” she exclaimed laughingly. 

“I’m perfectly serious! Aristophanes was a noted comedic playwright, after all.”

Lizzy had had her arms about his shoulders, now she ran a hand up into his hair affectionately. “I suppose we are our own little planet at the moment. I wish we always were. I’m rather full of wishes this evening.” 

“Any others I can fulfill for you?”

“Well,” she said, hesitantly, “did you really mean it about wanting me again?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam slid his hands down her sides to grip her hips, and moved her down, to press intimately against him. “What do you think, my dear?”

Lizzy blushed and laughed, “That does seem rather definitive proof of it. I— I wondered if I might be on top?”

He couldn’t hide his immediate interest in this idea and said, “Honestly, darling, I _insist_ on it. I think you’ll like that even better than what we have done. Kiss me a little more, will you?”

Lizzy did, melting against him and into him. 

“Shift a minute, my love,” he whispered, and slid his hand between her legs. She was as eager for him as before, but now, at least, he had an inkling of what she liked— to begin gently but to markedly increase the pace, until she was whimpering into his kiss, and pressing against his hand. 

“Fitz,” she begged. 

“Here, darling,” he said, sliding a finger into her. “You don’t feel too sore?” 

“Ooooh no. Not for this at least.  _ God _ .”

Colonel Fitzwilliam had bent to kiss her breast, and she trembled against him, once again carding her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. He luxuriated in the feel of her on his lap, how slick she was, how she trembled when he drew the tip of her breast into his mouth. 

“I want to,” she said, incoherently, and pressed down on his hand, sliding intimately against him. “Fitz,  _ please,  _ just—”

Colonel Fitzwilliam groaned against her breast, gave into the impulse to nip lightly at the newly stiff peaks; Lizzy let out a soft cry, head tilting back. 

“God, Lizzy, what you do to me,” he said, pressing his forehead to his collarbone for a moment’s recovery. “Can you shift forward, darling?”

Lizzy did so, putting her weight on her knees and rising. Colonel Fitzwilliam put a hand on each of her hips. He positioned her over him, then noticing she was trembling— and not just out of want for him— said, gently, “It’s just like riding.”

“I’m terrible at riding,” said Lizzy, looking down at them. “It... it somehow looks more intimidating from this angle.”

“I am not sure if that was a compliment or not,” he replied, laughing, “but I suppose I shall take it as one. Lizzy, sweetheart,  _ darling _ — didn’t I manage to teach you to ride a horse?”

“I don’t know if I would give myself that much credit,” said Lizzy. “I can get on a horse and I don’t fall off. Much. I cannot really make myself understood.”

“I think I can understand you better than a horse, my darling,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, running the pad of his thumb over the scars at her left hip. 

“I do hope you can,” said Lizzy, with a tentative smile. “Will you, um... help me to...?”

He released her right hip and guided himself towards her entrance. Lizzy took a deep breath and took him in.

Colonel Fitzwilliam groaned. “God, Lizzy. You feel incredible.” 

“It doesn’t hurt as much as the first time,” Lizzy said, still tentative, and slowly sank down, until he was fully inside her. She had a pinched expression by the end of it. 

“Alright, darling?” he asked, putting his hands to her hips again.

“Can you give me a minute?” Lizzy asked. “It... still feels strange. You were right, I am a little sore.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam occupied himself with mapping the new-discovered terrain of her breasts. Lizzy watched him in curiosity and amusement, until her breathing quickened and her head tilted back, tangling her hands in his hair. She arched into his touch, trying to grind down against him and without pulling her breast away from his lips. 

“Try this,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, putting his hands to her hips and gently moving her back and forth. “Just like that, darling.” He paused to admire the way she looked atop him like this, flushed and bare, her hair all on loose tangles down her back. “You’re so beautiful like this, Lizzy. However did I get so lucky?” 

“I ask myself the same thing,” Lizzy got out breathlessly.

“Vanity, vanity, Bennet.” 

She laughed breathlessly, beginning to move against him with growing confidence. “Oh you— ridiculous! Fitz, darling, darling Fitz— you know what I meant!  _ You’re  _ beautiful—“ She tugged on his hair until he tipped his head back and she could kiss him, with open-mouthed fervor.

Colonel Fitzwilliam slid a hand between them again, feeling very close, for all that he had just spent within her not half-an-hour ago, and whispered, “Darling, I want you to find your release like this. Do you think you can?”

“Yes,” she gasped. “Oh yes.” 

“I love seeing you like this, darling, knowing I’ve made you feel like this,” he said. Then, on impulse he nipped at the pulse point on her neck and whispered, against it, “I love  _ you _ .”

She cried out and clenched around him. Her abandon was intoxicating. 

“Oh my God, Lizzy,” he choked out and spent within her almost at once. There was an almost blinding intensity to the euphoria. 

They held each other tightly, shivering a little. Colonel Fitzwilliam sluggishly raised his head and looked down at her. There were tears matting Lizzy’s eyelashes. Colonel Fitzwilliam sentimentality kissed them away before she buried her face against the side of his neck. 

“I love you,” she half-sobbed against his sweaty, overheated skin. “Oh Fitz, I love you.”

He felt tearful himself at this, and could only press his lips to her hair and gently run his fingertips over her injured shoulder. She  _ loved  _ him. She loved  _ him _ . “Oh my darling,” he said, voice rough and trembling. “ _ Lizzy _ .”

For a sweet stretch of time, they merely held each other. He could feel Lizzy crying against his shoulder, but he could also be feel how doing so drained a long held fear from her, how she relaxed against him, into his embrace, giving herself more fully to him, without fear or reservation. 

At length Lizzy raised her head and tried to wipe off his shoulder with her hand. “Sorry for blubbing all over you, Fitz.”

“I was doing the same to you,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam capturing her hand and kissing it. “You really love me, Lizzy?”

“Yes,” she said, still sniffling a little. “I love you tremendously, Fitz.”

“My performance was good enough to tip you over from falling in love to fallen?” Colonel Fitzwilliam joked, trying to set her at ease. “My God Lizzy, you do such wonders for my self-conceit.”

She laughed and dried her eyes on part of the bed linens. “It  _ was  _ wonderful but it— I really can't explain it, it sounds asinine in my head but it— it’s everything this evening, really— how gentle you’re being with me, and how you didn’t— you didn’t even notice the scar at first and then when you asked about it, you kissed it, not once but _twice_ and it— God Fitz, you’re wonderful.” She was beginning to get teary again. 

Colonel Fitzwilliam gently maneuvered them both until they were horizontal and curled around each other, Lizzy's head cradled against his shoulder. 

“I should tidy myself again, but I can’t move,” Lizzy said, when she had finally cried herself out. 

“Be a slightly sticky people ball with me, then,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said. 

“Don’t ask me to turn cartwheels,” she said drowsily.

“I’ll abstain, just for you.’

Lizzy pressed close to him. “I’m not sure I’ve slept in the all-together before on my own, let alone with someone else. I can’t believe a member of the Regulars is dragging me into such irregular habits.”

“My God, I've corrupted an aviator,” he joked. 

“I’m very happy to be corrupted,” Lizzy murmured, half-asleep already. She nestled against him and was fully asleep within moments. Colonel Fitzwilliam took longer to drop off. He was still half-afraid that if he closed his eyes his would all disappear— it would be back to quiet longing impossible to be displayed, or acted upon. But at length, he slept, and woke to find that it had stopped raining.

Lizzy was already awake, staring the shuttered windows through a gap in the bedcurtains. 

“It’s over, isn’t it?” Lizzy asked, and he knew, very well, that she meant more than the thunderstorm.

“We’ll have to get up to see,” he replied. During the night, they had shifted, so that her back was pressed to his front, their limbs entangled. Colonel Fitzwilliam put his lips to her shoulder. “Lizzy, I meant everything I said last night.” He cleared his throat, trying to rid himself of the note of tremulous vulnerability that had crept in. “Did... did you?”

She hugged his arm to her chest, pressed his hand against her heart. Her “yes” was almost inaudible. 

“We have a better chance of escape now than before,” he said. “The French will leave and we can try and make contact with our division. They won’t be shocked if we rise late. I can hear the ribald jokes now.” 

He thought this would make her laugh, but instead Lizzy pressed back against him, sinking into his embrace. 

“No matter what else happens,  _ this _ did,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said softly, tightening his hold around her. “And I cannot regret that.”

“Nor I,” said Lizzy, though her voice was soft and low. “I— oh it doesn’t seem enough to say that I love you, Fitz, but I do and now it— I have so much more to lose.”

“We may not die,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, trying for cheer. “Though it seems dreadfully hard to believe right now.” 

“I just....”

“I know,” he said. “But we’ve made it this far together, darling.” 

There came a knock at the door, and Isabella called out, “Children, it is past ten and the rain has stopped! It is time to return home.”

“Yes, we are dressing!” Lizzy called out.

“I will come up for you again in ten minutes,” replied Isabella. 

“Is it that late in the morning already?” Colonel Fitzwilliam asked, in some surprise. 

“Let’s hope the French don’t offer us an escort,” said Lizzy, and then carefully pushed herself upright.

Colonel Fitzwilliam sat up himself, but then turned, cupped Lizzy’s face in his hands and kissed her thoroughly. 

She kept her eyes closed as he pulled away from her.

“Darling,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, gently. “Please, look at me.”

Lizzy did. She had such beautiful dark eyes, their expression so intelligent, their color so warm. 

“I love you,” he said, helplessly. “Just— know that Lizzy, no matter what happens today.”

“I know it,” said Lizzy, with a tremulous smile, “and I know how desperately I love you and I— oh Fitz, I didn’t let myself want impossible things before and now I do. I don’t want last night to be the only time, and I want— I want so much— and I’m so afraid that—”

She bowed her head, closing her eyes against a sudden rush of tears; Colonel Fitzwilliam kissed her forehead, helpless with tenderness, knowing he was powerless to give her the assurance she craved. He had no idea what would happen when they stepped out of their room.

Still, he tried his best to offer what comfort he could. He helped her dress and brushed out her hair with all the tenderness she could accept from him without crying, and once they had bathed and dressed, held her in his arms until Isabella knocked on the door again.

“One moment,” Lizzy called and looked up at Colonel Fitzwilliam, her hands resting on his chest. 

There was not time for much more than a last, desperate kiss, and a serious look, before Lizzy opened the door. 

Isabella came in, and, after carefully locking the door behind her, said, “The French have insisted on escorting us to my family’s farm. This is not so bad. My eighty-year-old mother and a couple of servants are still there, and I stop in occasionally for supplies. It is... sparse, but it will not be uncomfortable. We lay low for a day or two and then we try to make contact with your division.”

Lizzy and Colonel Fitzwilliam exchanged hopeful looks. They had both been anticipating Isabella coming to their room, announcing that their covers had been blown, that the French had somehow discovered they had been tricked, that there was no hope of joining the division. This was far better than either of them could have anticipated.  

Isabella fixed Lizzy’s hair so that her face was once again hidden by her mantilla, and helped arrange her shawl so that Lizzy could keep her left arm in something close to a sling. The innkeeper brought them up a little breakfast, once again compliments of the French, and they descended into the tap room only to see the doors to the inn burst open, and a soaking wet French aviator strut in, exclaiming, exultantly, “Captain Drouet, I have caught him!”

Captain Drouet asked, startled, “Who?”

The aviator stepped aside and two of his men tossed a handsome man in a torn, green, aviator’s coat onto the floor of the inn's tap room. Lizzy grabbed Colonel Fitzwilliam’s arm as the wet aviator announced, with great pride: 

“Captain Frederick Wentworth, of His Majesty’s Dragon Laconia.”


	10. In which Laconia and Wollstonecraft are pretty pissed off

“We found him hidden in an abandoned dragon cave in the mountains,” said the wet aviator.

“Is it really the famous Captain Wentworth?” Captain Drouet asked, in English. 

Though his hands were bound behind his back, the aviator managed to defiantly raise himself to his knees.  It was Captain Wentworth— unshaven, with his lower lip split, but he seemed otherwise uninjured, and as proud and as brash as ever.

Lizzy seized Colonel Fitzwilliam’s right arm and Isabella instinctively stepped before Lizzy, shielding her from view. 

“I cannot speak to my fame, sir," said Captain Wentworth, coolly, in French, "but I am Captain Wentworth of His Majesty’s Dragon Laconia.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam looked around the tap room, mapping its territory, comparing the number of French aviators to guerillas. They weren’t outnumbered but they were significantly outgunned. 

“He killed Captain Gadbois,” spat the wet aviator, in French. “Brumaire is still beside himself with grief. He will not be appeased until he had been put to death.”

Captain Drouet said, “Well done, Lieutenant Lauzon. Very well done. Tie this man to that pillar over there.”

“I must find a way to talk to him,” Lizzy told Isabella, very softly. “He’s one of my men.” 

Isabella nodded. 

Colonel Fitzwilliam drew Lizzy closer and pressed her head against his chest, hiding her face from view. 

“Is that an English aviator?” Isabella asked, curiously.

“Indeed it is, ma’am, one we have been looking for, for several days,” said Captain Drouet. “We captured him during the battle several days ago, and he killed a dragon captain, stole his parachute and has been hiding in the mountains ever since. The murder of a dragon captain is a very dreadful thing, for dragons are so attached to their captains and sometimes will not take another. Captains are always to be captured and ransomed rather than killed outright.” 

‘Then why execute an English one?’ Colonel Fitzwilliam thought. 

Captain Drouet caught sight of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s apprehensive look and the way Lizzy hid her face and said, coaxingly, “Come, come senora, there is no reason for fear. You need not be afraid. My men are to be trusted. Have we not shown that now?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam looked to Isabella.

Isabella turned and patted Lizzy thoughtfully on the shoulder. “See now, there’s nothing to be afraid of, my daughter.” 

“Are you sure?” Lizzy asked, softly. 

“Yes, Elena, he is tied. Come, look at him, you will see he is tied.” Isabella, now with her back fully to the French, mouthed, ‘Shake your head,’ at her.

Lizzy obeyed. 

“Oh come, there is no need to be afraid! He is tied.”

“I will not go,” Lizzy whispered. “I beg you forgive me, mother, but he frightens me.” 

Captain Wentworth did not look very frightening, tied to a pillar by the fire, scruffy and mudstained, his lower lip bleeding again. 

Isabella turned to Captain Drouet with an exasperated look. “She is timid, sir— ah, I have an idea.” She turned back to Lizzy and mouthed, ‘nod.’ “My dear daughter, is it not your duty as a Christian to minister to the injured? Why not take him food and water? Then you will be safe, for you will be doing the will of the Lord, and God shall protect you. And if you die, you die in a state for grace, while doing good works.” 

“I am not sure that is much consolation,” said Lieutenant Remillard, in French.

Captain Drouet elbowed him. “Silence, lieutenant. We’ve already distressed the poor young lady enough.” In Spanish he said, “My men will protect you, senora. You truly will have nothing to fear.”

Lizzy tentatively said, “If— if Ricard will come with me too, then I... I will.” 

“There’s my brave girl,” said Isabella heartily.

“Brava, senora,” said Captain Drouet. “You will see that you can trust our men. Innkeeper, fetch the prisoner bread and water.”

The innkeeper made up a tray and gave it to Lizzy, and looked pointedly at the folded cloth napkin next to the plate of tapas. Lizzy nodded and took the tray, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor. Colonel Fitzwilliam steered her, with a gentle hand on the back. Two French soldiers stood proudly at attention, on either side of Captain Wentworth. 

Captain Drouet stood nearby, arms crossed. “Captain, you interrupted the wedding of this lady and this gentleman, and yet she kindly offers you water. What say you?”

Captain Wentworth raised his head and caught sight of Lizzy. His eyes went wide. 

Lizzy caught his eye meaningfully. 

Captain Wentworth bowed as best he could while bound to a pole and said, easily and courteously, “Senora, I thank you for your kindness. You have my word of honor I will not harm you. I only killed the other captain because he was taking me from  _ my  _ dragon.”

Lizzy nodded and knelt at his side, setting the tray by the pillar. She quietly raised the cup of water to his lips. Captain Wentworth drank, and some of the tension left the room. 

“See, Elena, my child, all is well,” said Isabella, and turned rapturously to Captain Drouet, to thank him. 

The guards relaxed, and when some of the barmaids came up to them with tankards of ale, took them. One of the guards was immediately lured into conversation; the other kept his eyes fixed on Lizzy until a waiter came over with a leg of chicken and he fell eagerly upon it while Isabella was distracting his captain. Colonel Fitzwilliam angled himself so that he blocked Lizzy and Captain Wentworth from view. 

A guerilla in a peasant’s smock slouched to the other side of the pillar and sat at the table there, calling to his friends to come warm themselves by the fire. As soon as they sat down, Lizzy swiftly removed a knife from the folds of the napkin and stuck it in Captain Wentworth’s bound hands. She was back to feeding Captain Wentworth tapas before anyone glanced at Lizzy again. 

In English, Captain Wentworth said, softly, “I have been with Wringe since the battle. Laconia promised her a solid gold chain if she would promise to always save me if I fell. Brumaire surprised us as dawn. Wringe went for reinforcements.”

Lizzy nodded.

“I have no idea how far the division may be.”

“Eat slowly,” Lizzy said in Spanish. “You will make yourself sick.”

They managed to drag out this process until Captain Drouet said, “There now, Senora. You see? My men have kept you safe. You may return now in perfect security. We can even provide you with an escort.”

“That... that is not necessary,” Lizzy said, bent over the tray. “I am ashamed of my previous fears, sir. I trust you and your men to keep this part of Spain safe.”

“It is the least we can do, after we so rudely interrupted your wedding,” said Captain Drouet courteously. 

Captain Wentworth raised his eyebrows and looked at Colonel Fitzwilliam's hand on Lizzy's injured shoulder. 

Lizzy shot him a warning look and went back to fastidiously folding the napkin.

“Too kind, too kind,” said Isabella. “We do not feel right taking your men from their duties. What if the English should attack again?”

“I assure you, senora—”

A French runner dashed in. “Captain! A Longwing and a Yellow Reaper approaching! They darted out of a cloudbank—”

A draconic roar shook the timbers of the inn.

Colonel Fitzwilliam had never been so glad to hear it.

“I think they have arrived,” said Lieutenant Remillard, dryly.

“If Brumaire is still in harness, have him engage,” ordered Captain Drouet. “Quicktime, to Destinée, get her ready for battle! Remillard, get these civilians out of here before the battle begins!”  

The Spanish guerillas knew what to do with such an order. They made as much trouble as possible. They pretended to be panicked, they forgot any French that they had ever known, and got in the way of every French aviator while running outside. Of course, they knocked over the guards watching Captain Wentworth, and in the confusion and with all the people helping up the guards, no one noticed that Captain Wentworth had spun about the column, crawled under the table behind it, and been swept up in the group of men in workingman’s smocks. Someone tossed a blanket around his shoulders, another put a hat upon his head.

Unfortunately, Lieutenant Remillard had seen this and narrowed his eyes at Colonel Fitzwilliam and Lizzy. “Let me help you to your feet, Senora."

“We must go,” mumbled Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Elena—”

Lieutenant Remillard crouched down and stared at Lizzy full in the face. “No Spanish woman wears her mantilla like that. None here, nor any I have seen. Why do you?”

Lizzy shrunk back. 

“Have you something to hide? Perhaps... a scarred eye you cannot hide behind a patch?” 

“No, I—” 

But it was too late; Lieutenant Remillard tore the mantilla from her hair. 

Lizzy picked up the tray she’d brought to Captain Wentworth and slammed it against the side of Lieutenant Remillard’s head. 

“Time to run,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, and grabbed Lizzy by the arm. They raced out the door, burst into the street, and ran down towards the bridge and the sound of dragons fighting. Parts of the road still smoked from Wollstoncraft’s acid, and a Petit Chevalier, evidently Brumaire, was scrambling out of the flattened ruins of a bakery overlooking the gorge. They got out just as Destinee took to the air, and Laconia sailed under her, scanning the streets and calling out, “Frederick, Frederick!” in panicked tones. 

“Laconia!” called out Frederick, breaking from the group. “Laconia, here!” 

“ _ Frederick _ !” cried Laconia, and scooped him up at once. 

“Where’s Wollstonecraft?” Lizzy cried.

Laconia glanced over her shoulder, towards the gorge, before whipping her head around. French aviators spilled from the inn, running towards them, and she landed on three feet, taking care to tuck Captain Wentworth on her back before swiping at the onrush of French aviators like a cat patting at a ball of crumpled paper. 

“I don’t think she heard you,” gasped Colonel Fitzwilliam. 

“You!” came the voice of Lieutenant Remillard. He had rolled under Laconia’s arm, towards them, and now rose up on one knee, his sword out. “I know you—”

“Oh hell,” said Lizzy. She turned and took a running leap off and into the canyon. 

Colonel Fitzwilliam was too dumbfounded to really understand this. It seemed rather an extreme reaction. Surely between the two of them, they could overpower Lieutenant Remillard? 

Lieutenant Remillard seemed equally confused by this and paused as he was, still on one knee. 

Then came a sudden roar that shook the ground upon which they stood, and Wollstonecraft came soaring up and out of the gorge. 

“ _ How dare you _ ?” Wollstonecraft roared. “How dare you take my captain _and_ my colonel!” 

The Flamme-de-gloire overhead heard this, and divebombed Wollstonecraft. 

Lieutenant Remillard and Colonel Fitzwilliam were both distracted by this, but Colonel Fitzwilliam recovered more quickly. He dashed toward Laconia. 

“Stop where you are!” yelled Lieutenant Remillard, close on his heels. 

Colonel Fitzwilliam raced towards Laconia. Lieutenant Fairfax spotted him and immediately unhooked herself, slid down Laconia’s back, and hooked herself into the carabiner nearest Laconia’s tail. She extended a hand to him. Colonel Fitzwilliam reached out to her—

Lieutenant Remillard brought the pommel of his sword down on Colonel Fitzwilliam’s shoulder; hard enough for Colonel Fitzwilliam to pitch forward, missing Lieutenant Fairfax’s hand, and sprawling on the ground. The wind was knocked out of him; he struggled for breath. 

“I don’t know who you are, except a guerilla,” said Lieutenant Remillard, putting his foot between Colonel Fitzwilliam’s shoulderblades. “Are you all guerillas? Was there even a wedding?”

A gunshot; near enough to make Colonel Fitzwilliam’s ears ring. 

Lieutenant Remillard jumped back with a curse. Colonel Fitzwilliam dragged himself up, gasping for breath and stumbled away, back toward Laconia.

But now Brumaire was up again, and lunged at Laconia’s side. Laconia was forced to take to the air, lest she tip backwards and crush all her crew. Colonel Fitzwilliam looked around; the gorge was behind him; before him was a street full of French aviators. To his left, there was the rubble of a bakery, and a few injured French aviators, drawing themselves upright. To his right, there were several houses and then— the bridge. 

Bridge it was. 

He forced himself to run, each breath scraping its way down his throat into his lungs. Then— thank God— he spotted a cavalry horse with an English saddle— evidentially one of the horses stolen from his own regiment. It turned in circles, whinnying. An injured French aviator was slumped over its neck, the reins dangling from its unconscious hands.

“I’m terribly sorry,” gasped out Colonel Fitzwilliam, and seized the stirrup, pulling the aviator down and off the saddle. To mount was the work of seconds, even without a block, for he had spent ages sixteen to nineteen thinking it was very dashing to be able to leap into a saddle without assistance, mounting block, or step.

The horse quieted somewhat, feeling his hand upon the reigns, sensing that someone who knew his business was now astride it. Colonel Fitzwilliam reined it it and directed the horse to the bridge. 

“Stop that man!” roared out Lieutenant Remillard. “He is a guerilla! Stop him!”

Colonel Fitzwilliam dug his heels into the horse’s side and it sprung into a gallop. Colonel Fitzwilliam bent over the horse’s neck, trying to catch his breath and keep his eye on the crowded streets. The cobblestones flew by, he neared the bridge— 

The Flamme-de-gloire Destinée crashed into the bridge, the railings and bricks crumbling at the impact. 

“That’s... not ideal,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam.

A sudden series of clacks and insistent whistles above him; he looked up to see—

“Gherni!”

Gherni dangled down the long strip of leather attached to her harness. 

Colonel Fitzwilliam thought, ‘Well, it’s either be ridiculous or dead,’ drew his legs up, managed to balance upright on the back of his stolen horse, and jumped for the dangling leather strap on Gherni’s harness.

As soon we he gripped the leather, Gherni drew him up and swung him onto her back, with a pleased chitter, as if praising a lapdog for standing on its hind legs. 

“Thank God for you, old girl,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, giving into sentiment and hugging her neck once he’d tied himself to her harness using the strap. “I need you to get that man— all the medals.” He imitated the noise she made when she saw something shiny. 

Gherni circled back and seized Lieutenant Remillard with her back feet.

Lieutenant Remillard spluttered in French. 

“Fitz!” came Lizzy’s voice, tinnily, through a speaking trumpet.

He turned; Wollstonecraft winged her way up and out of the gorge, now that the Flamme-de-gloire had been stunned, and Laconia and Brumiare locked into combat above. Gherni put on a burst of speed to get near her. 

“Throw him, Gherni,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. 

She tossed Lieutenant Remillard up and onto Wollstonecraft’s back, where he was set upon by the rest of the crew. 

Lizzy called out, “Follow us!” and Wollstonecraft unfurled her wings to their fullest, magnificent extent. A single beat was powerful enough to send her soaring upwards, towards the clouds. Colonel Fitzwilliam gripped onto Gherni’s collar and kept his head down. It was going to be thoroughly unpleasant to do this without gloves, overcoat, or goggles. He screwed his eyes shut and trusted Gherni. God, this was high. Far too high. He tried to recite Roman emperors in his head to calm down, but it kept being interrupted by a running ‘ _ don’t look down, don’t look down, don’t look down _ ,’ interspersed with a growing sensation of numbness in hands and feet. He was shivering with cold by the time he felt Gherni start to descend. 

He pried his eyes open. Southern Spain was less dramatic than the dark green hills of Portugal. All passed below in undulations of yellow, dark green, and brown, dotted with the tiny silver-green blobs of olive trees. But soon enough they found the deep green mountains again, and Colonel Fitzwilliam was glad to be on dragonback, passing over them as if jumping over molehills, instead of laboriously traversing them on foot or in uncomfortable farm carts with the guerillas. 

Gherni landed heavily in a clearing. A tumbled collection of tents and campfires had sprung up around it; Colonel Fitzwilliam recognized it as the clearing where they had left half the regiment when approaching Ronda. 

His hands felt frozen to the harness; he remained where he was, pressing his forehead to the back of Gherni’s scaley neck. “Thank you, old girl. I owe you my life.”

Gherni chittered at him. She hadn’t understood what he said, but she seemed worried that he would not dismount. Hands reached for him; people untied him. Colonel Fitzwilliam dimly saw his batman and his aides all unstrapping him and helping him down.

His legs buckled when he tried to stand; they were cramped from crouching in the same position for hours. 

“He’s frozen solid,” exclaimed one of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s aides.

His batman, Pattinson, put a blanket about Colonel Fitzwilliam’s shoulders and called for hot tea. Colonel Fitzwilliam remained sitting in the dirt. Gherni dropped down behind him and he leaned against her side. He hadn’t realized quite how cold, or how tired he was. He focused on the hot cup of tea someone shoved into his hands. Colonel Fitzwilliam sipped at the tea until his face felt less numb, and kept hold of the still warm cup. Feeling returned, in painful pin-pricks, to his fingers. By this time, all his staff and several of their wives were gathered about him, staring at him in worry.

Colonel Fitzwilliam turned to Lieutenant-Colonel Gowing. “Tell it to me straight, Hal. Did my horses make it?”

The tension broke like a ship’s biscuit breaking in half under a bootheel.  Some of the officers laughed. 

“Yes, yes, both Dulcinea and Perrault are right as rain,” said Lieutenant-Colonel Gowing, amused. “They were with the camp when we were attacked.”

“Well thank God for that,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had been forcing himself not to think of what might have happened to his horses. 

“Fitz!  _ Fitz _ !” came Lizzy’s voice. 

Before he could look up, she had flung her arms about him and buried her face against his shoulder. 

“Hello Bennet,” he said, dropping the cup to embrace her. “I’m frozen solid but otherwise fine. You?”

She pulled herself together and then back. Her hair was back in its proper military queue, tightly bound back in black ribbon, and her face was tear-stained. She had draped an aviator’s coat about her shoulders, though she still wore the dress and shawl beneath it. “Fine. Shoulder’s a bit awkward, still.”

Wollstonecraft came lumbering over and lowered her head to stare anxiously at Colonel Fitzwilliam. “You are well? Lizzy said you were well, but humans are so delicate and haven’t proper skin for flying, and you hadn’t coat or gloves.

Gherni whistled scornfully at Wollstonecraft, as if asking how she could think that Colonel Fitzwilliam could come to harm while she had her eye on him. 

“I am well,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, touched by Wollstonecraft’s concern. “Has anyone any news on the French? Are they in pursuit?”

“They stopped following us a half-hour ago,” said Lizzy, her hand still on his shoulder. “We lost them in the clouds. The two French dragons were too injured to continue without knowing exactly where we were headed. I think they turned round. I think we ought to rest for the night and then make for Madrid tomorrow.”

“I agree,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “and not merely for the fact that I should make British  _ sang-froid _ literal if I was to go aloft again tonight.” 

His aides and all the worried officers who had gathered about laughed at this. If Colonel Fitzwilliam was joking, matters couldn’t be too dreadful. Colonel Dunne, now finished sorting out the seriously wounded among his assistant surgeons, came and examined Colonel Fitzwilliam. He declared that Colonel Fitzwilliam was in no danger of frostbite, but did need to warm up. His batman helped him up and towards a campfire, and gave him more tea. Colonel Fitzwilliam gratefully unthawed as his officers made their reports. 

After the battle several days ago— was it only several days ago? It felt like months— what had been left of the regiment had returned to the camp. The dragons had been grounded during the storm. Very early that morning, Wringe had come to camp, declaring that Captain Wentworth was being taken to the city of Ronda. It had seemed reasonable to assume Captain Bennet and Colonel Fitzwilliam would be there, too, if they had been captured. But just in case they were wrong, the other dragons remained with the regiment at the encampment. 

It was nearly dinnertime once Colonel Fitzwilliam had been given lists of the remaining supplies, as well as lists of the dead and injured. 

The guerillas still had Colonel Fitzwilliam’s everyday uniform; he had to don the fancier one he wore to dinners. Though he did feel better for being properly attired, he regretted casting aside the rough peasant clothes in which he had lived for the past few days. He had been oddly happy in them. 

“Save these, will you?” he said abruptly, to Pattinson. “They’re damned comfortable. I’ll keep ‘em for days I’m just mucking about with the horses.” 

“Yes, sir.” Pattinson cleared his throat. “Glad you’re back, sir. We was all worried for you, sir. And beggin’ your pardon, sir, but Lieutenant-Colonel Gowing just couldn’t replace you.” 

“That warms my heart, Pattinson,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Thank you.” He examined himself in his shaving mirror; his freshly shaven chin, the high, starched collar of his shirt, the faultless knot of his cravat, the shining brilliance of his gold braid. The formality of his appearance felt both a trap and like the blanket he had carried about when three or four, as an especial talisman against the bogeys. “Can you send word to Captain Bennet? I wish to talk to her before we both dine with our officers. I want to hear how her people are, and what she thinks we ought to do with our prisoner.”

Captain Bennet had dressed in her second-best uniform as well, sparkling with gold braid. She had her arm in a proper sling, and seemed a little shy. 

“Um,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Won’t you— won’t you sit a minute, Bennet? We’re a bit skint in terms of rations. I can offer you tea and ship’s biscuit and... ah.” He pulled an orange out from the stacks of report on his desk. “One of Major Smith’s children saved this for me. Care to split it?”

“If you will carve,” said Lizzy, and sat across the camp table from him. 

Colonel Fitzwilliam summarized his reports and focused on the orange until he was sure Pattinson had left. When he passed the plate over to Lizzy, she accidentally grabbed his hand instead of the plate and they both colored deeply. 

“I....”

“We... Lieutenant Remillard,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said confusedly. “Where is he?”

“I have some men watching him, and he’s been fed and watered as Freddie was by the French,” said Lizzy. “Lieutenant Remillard had a wanted poster of me, and very graciously gave it me, as a show of good faith. He lost his sword when Gherni picked him up so he couldn't surrender that. It is not a good likeness of me, but my father will enjoy having it very much indeed.” 

“Did he... will he talk, do you think, about what we...?” Colonel Fitzwilliam didn’t know what he wanted to say, and said, confusedly, “Lizzy, I— I know how you feel about Captain Laurence, and I don’t— I do not wish for anyone to doubt your authority or the like, if it... if Lieutenant Remillard should  _ talk. _ ”

“I told my officers already that we were forced to masquerade as a married couple,” said Lizzy taking her plate and focusing on its contents. “They were all in whoops about it. I... wished them to be, but it still does smart a bit that they thought it so ridiculous that we should successfully pretend to be in love with each other.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam couldn’t resist. He put his hand over hers. She still wore his signet ring on her left ring finger. “I don’t have to pretend, my dear.”

Lizzy turned her hand over to grasp his. “Fitz—” 

But then Lieutenant-Colonel Gowing raised the tent flap and said, “Sorry, sir, but we’ve had some trouble with drunk and disorderlies using your return as an excuse to break into the stores of grog—”

Colonel Fitzwilliam had drawn his hand back as soon as Lieutenant-Colonel Gowing had entered and forced himself to say, as if unaffected by Lizzy, “No rest for the weary, eh Bennet?”

“No,” said Lizzy, forcing herself to look cheerful and just as unaffected. “Back to business, I suppose.” But, as she rose to go she flushed and said, “When we get to Madrid tomorrow— will you come dine with me? We’ll toast more sensibly to our return than your men.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam felt his spirits rise. “I look forward to it.” 


	11. In which Colonel Fitzwilliam and Captain Bennet make their excuses

Before dinner, Colonel Fitzwilliam went to help bring his horses in from the paddock. Both horses came when he called, and seemed very glad to see him; though it was probably more due to the ship’s biscuit he had brought them, than any particular joy in seeing their owner return.

Still, it was a comfort to put his arms about Dulcinea and bury his face in her mane; to have her lip at the tails of his coat in the hopes he was hiding more biscuit in his pockets; and for Perrault to nudge his back, to assist in Dulcinea’s search. If he cried a little, out of the sheer relief of seeing them again, of having made it out from what had been one of the more... intense experiences of his entire life, the horses neither noticed nor cared. Hail to the biscuit bringer, whose strange outer garments might contain more; as long as he was still long enough for them to investigate, he could do whatever he pleased. 

The men in charge of the horses kept a respectful distance; and disappeared entirely when Wollstonecraft landed.

Colonel Fitzwilliam pushed himself away from his horses and went to greet her. He was touched at how anxiously Wollstonecraft inspected him, at how she kept asking, in subtly different ways, if he was sure he was very well.

“Yes, yes, I promise you. A little chilled and a little tired, but nothing a hot dinner and a night’s rest will not cure.”

“Gherni took you too high when you had no coat,” groused Wollstonecraft. 

“No, no, Gherni took excellent care of me. I was very touched she came in search of me.”

“Gherni is particularly attached to you, though she is well aware you are mine, the greedy creature.” Wollstonecraft slunk closer to him and said, haltingly, “And— Lizzy, I know you were with her when she fell— she tells me her shoulder is injured. Is she hiding how bad it is? She avoided using her left arm all day today and yet said it was not a  _ serious  _ injury. Lizzy does not like to worry me.”

“No, she was able to move it without much pain last evening,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, coloring a little. “I think she is being cautious merely. Has Colonel Dunne seen to her? Should you like me to send him to her?”

“Yes,” said Wollstonecraft eagerly. “For she will not turn him away if you sent him.” Wollstonecraft laid her head on the ground, so that her giant eye was roughly the same height as Colonel Fitzwilliam. She confided, “Lizzy is a great deal too apt to make light of her own injuries. She will not rest!”

“I cannot deny that,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, fondly. “But it is a sign, you know, that she is a good division captain. She never leaves to others what she feels she ought to do herself.”

“What she  _ ought  _ to do is rest and get better,” said Wollstonecraft, with some asperity. “Particularly since, when she is well, I must have an unpleasant talk with her.”

“About... her inability to rest?”

“No, no, the necessity of creating a breeding plan.” 

Colonel Fitzwilliam managed to choke on absolutely nothing. “I— I beg your pardon?”

“She has no clear successor at present.” 

“But— it— I thought it was well understood that any girl that the Benwicks have would, er—”

Wollstonecraft let out an annoyed snort. “Yes, and for all their attempts at it, they’ve produced nothing so far. While Lizzy was gone, there was some talk on what I ought to do if she could not be found. Mrs. Benwick had the  _ audacity  _ to put herself forward as my next captain, and did so as if it was an  _ inconvenience _ . As if being a  _ division captain  _ and of the Mixed Model Division in particular was anything but the highest possible honor!”

“I cannot begin to imagine Lydia Benwick as co-division head,” admitted Colonel Fitzwilliam. 

“How she could ever consider herself an adequate replacement for Lizzy is— is—” Wollstonescraft seemed at a loss for words. “Why, she is as wild as any of Arkady’s flock. No discipline, no skills, no interest in learning— she is temperamentally unfit to be a division captain and I am very sure her eggs will take after her.”

“That is rather harsh,” protested Colonel Fitzwilliam. “There is a great deal to be said for how a child is brought up, in how they turn out as an adult.”

Wollstonecraft graciously agreed, “Lizzy’s sisters have not been brought up to the service properly, that is very true, so it is not fair to measure them against her. But you cannot expect  _ no  _ influence from dam and sire. Excedium and I have had two eggs, one already hatched to Captain Marianne Dashwood—” she reported this very proudly “—and even though he was hatched and harnessed while we were both in Spain, Shakespeare takes very much after me. Lily says she found Shakespeare very phlegmatic, and rather too rule-bound, the last time he saw him, but when Shakespeare ended up with such a shatterwit as Marianne Dashwood as captain, I think it a necessity he holds to the rules as much as he can.”

As Colonel Fitzwilliam had never met neither Shakespeare nor Captain Dashwood, he had no reply to make, except a “Hm.” 

“But to return to my point— I will not like a captain that takes after either Captain Benwick  _ or  _ Mrs. Benwick. I cannot abide a captain who will neglect their duty because they are having  _ feelings _ , or because they wish to go to a ball instead of practicing their swordplay. I do not wish for a captain who is too melancholic or a captain that is too giddy.”

“Perhaps their child will be a mix of the two and come out perfectly balanced.”

“And perhaps Napoleon will retire peacefully from battle,” said Wollstonecraft acidly. “No, I shall not take my chances on  _ that _ . I can see no other way forward, but to ask Lizzy to look out for a mate… though I hate to ask Lizzy to do it, since I know not all are inclined towards mating. My first captain could not mate with any but her own sex, and that does not produce eggs.” Wollstonecraft observed his very red face and said, “I suppose I am embarrassing you?”

“Yes, rather,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, feeling extremely self-conscious for more than one reason. “I, er. Um. Humans do not— this is not a thing we generally discuss.”

“Really?” Wollstonecraft asked. “However do you manage to propagate your species? By accident?”

“More often than we care to admit,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “I, er. Look here, Wollstonecraft—I— I am sure Lizzy, er. She will do everything required of her.” His own feelings felt bruised at the idea of her taking on any other man, so he added, rather defensively, “I beg you not to force any partner on her, especially when she is not well. She will injure herself again.”

“No, and I have no candidates for her. I suggested Wentworth once, for Laconia told me that human females find him attractive, but when I did, Lizzy laughed so much, she fell off my back.” Wollstonecraft eyed him speculatively. “Your dam and sire— they have always had good health? And they have had female children?”

“Yes?” He then caught on to what she was doing and— equally mortified by the idea of being thought uninterested, and the thought of having his interest revealed via draconic breeding plans— hastily said, “Wollstonecraft, will you take me to Colonel Dunne? I haven’t much time if I'm to send him to Lizzy, and dress for dinner.”

At dinner, one of the junior officers he did not know well said, “I heard, sir, that you and Captain Bennet were forced to masquerade as a married couple?”

“Oh, ah, yes we were,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, wishing he had thought to ask Lizzy exactly what she’d said. 

“You see!” exclaimed an ensign. “I heard, sir, you were trapped in an inn with an entire French dragon crew and they were all searching for you and Captain Bennet, so you pretended to be married and hid away upstairs!” 

There was a polite titter of laughter, and some jokes at this. Colonel Fitzwilliam was too far to hear these, but he caught the general tone and was not pleased. 

Mrs. Gowing, at the foot of the table, was not pleased either. She snapped, “And just why do you find this to be so  _ ridiculous  _ Ensign Shoreditch?”

“Oh, I, no, ma’am, I cannot fault the colonel for thinking it up,” he stammered.

“I must credit Comandante Teresa for the plan,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, lightly but quellingly. “It was her genius. She saved my life, and Captain Bennet’s in more ways than that, merely. We owe our Spanish allies a great deal.”

“It is no, er, no insult to our Spanish allies,” Ensign Shoreditch protested. “It is only— well! It is somewhat— that is— I mean, it is a little ridiculous that someone as unladylike as Captain Bennet should successfully pretend to be a blushing bride.” 

Colonel Fitzwilliam felt a flare of furious defensiveness. 

Fortunately, before he could say anything and betray himself, the ladies of the regiment began to protest. They all liked and had become proud of the female aviators, and, in knowing how similiar the aviators’ experiences were to their own, had begun to frame their own experiences following the drum as service equal to that of their husbands. Mrs. Gowing’s voice rose over the rest. “You have not satisfied me, sir, as to exactly  _ why  _ it is ridiculous? Captain Bennet is an extremely handsome and well-mannered woman who would make an absolutely beautiful bride, and the plan was extremely clever.”

Ensign Shoreditch protested, “Well I— it is ridiculous! I saw Captain Bennet shoot a Frenchman in the face then then pistol whip another immediately afterwards. Don’t think she would make a very cozy armful.”

“I have loaded my share of muskets and shot them,” said Mrs. Smith. “As has every woman here, and you don’t see any of our husbands complaining, young man.”

Mrs. Gowing snapped, “Don’t you dare speak in such a way again, about any woman— let alone Captain Bennet!”

“Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Gowing are quite right,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, trying to make himself sound less angry than he felt, and settling on a tone of cool authoritativeness. “We would all of us be dead without Captain Bennet, and the efforts of the aerial officers, as well as the ladies of our own regiments. I don’t ever want to hear any denigration of their service, or how it renders them unladylike. We do not stop being gentlemen because we pick up arms. It is the same with the ladies, whether they are follow the drum, or are members of the aerial corps. Fulfilling one’s duties and defending one’s dependents and subordinates is no mark against gentility, regardless of sex. Is that perfectly clear?”

He was not satisfied by the chorus of somewhat panicked agreements from his junior officers, and added, with more anger than caution, “Ensign Shoreditch, I admittedly would make someone a poor husband, but would you say so at table, and claim I am not a gentleman because I once gutted an enemy dragon midair?”

“N-no, sir!”

“Then you ought to realize you have no right to say such things about Captain Bennet. She is my co-leader in the division and as such, outranks everyone but myself. I am not a flogging officer, and I think myself rather a lenient fellow, but I will  _ not _ allow insubordination. I shall break out the whip if this kind of disrespect continues. Understood?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” 

Colonel Fitzwilliam signaled for the servants to clear the soup bowls and forced himself to be blasé. “Gowing, Captain Bennet agreed the corps would be ready to move to Madrid tomorrow. Have we any worries on that head?”

The rest of the dinner was less fraught, and if the junior officers were more subdued Colonel Fitzwilliam found that all the ladies of the regiment were more than happy to take their silence as an excuse to talk with unaccustomed frankness as to their experiences and the actions they’d seen. Colonel Fitzwilliam found himself a little surprised by all that they actually did during actions. He had seen all of them fetching water, loading muskets, and tending to the wounded, but was somewhat amazed to discover that they had often fought and shot themselves, and how more than a few of them had taken their husbands’ places when their husbands had fallen or been too injured to continue. 

He did not see Captain Bennet until the next morning, when they were all preparing to go and even then, she was hard to spot because all the ladies of the regiment were coming up to see her, and to make sure for themselves that she was well.

Lieutenant Lucas actually offered him a hand up onto Wollstonecraft. “Colonel Fitzwilliam. Very glad to see you again, sir.”

“Likewise, Lieutenant,” he said, scrambling up. “All well?”

“Yes, now,” she said, with an amused look. “It was rough going without you, Captain Bennet, and Captain Wentworth. The dragons were going mad. Wollstonecraft here got into an extended fight with Gherni over whose fault it was that you were missing, colonel.”

“It was Gherni's,” muttered Wollstonecraft. 

Colonel Fitzwilliam hooked himself into his usual spot, at Wollstonecraft’s neck, and watched with pleasure as Lizzy came scrambling up Wollstonecraft’s side. In an odd role reversal, he offered her a hand up, since her left arm was bound up in a sling.

Lizzy was not a dissembler by any stretch of the imagination. She guarded her expression when fencing, but at all other times, her easy, affectionate temperament meant that anyone could guess what she was thinking and feeling, and the look of shy pleasure when she took his hand both warmed Colonel Fitzwilliam and alarmed him. “Hullo, Fitz.”

“Grab on Bennet— there we go.” 

Once at Wollstonecraft’s neck, Lizzy smiled up at him, her flying goggles pushed up in her hair, her leather flying coat flapping open about her— as different as could be from the lace mantilla and the shawl she had been wearing the past few days, but she didn’t appear a smidgeon less beautiful. Colonel Fitzwilliam wondered just how many times he could be lost in the sheer pleasure of looking at her.

Wollstonecraft twisted her head around. “I could have lifted you up, Lizzy.”

They had held each others’ hands just a moment too long; Lizzy dropped his hand and began trying to hook onto Wollstonecraft’s collar one-handed. “No, dearest, I’m not infirm, just injured.”

“You look tired,” said Wollstonecraft reprovingly. 

“Did you sleep at all?” asked Lieutenant Lucas, taking over.

Lizzy exasperatedly submitted to having Lieutenant Lucas buckle her in. “Yes.”

“How much?”

“Enough.”

Lieutenant Lucas tested the strap. “And did you sleep in the tent and the  _ very  _ comfortable mattress we procured for you on Colonel Dunne’s orders?”

Lizzy said, rather sourly, “Thank you, Captain Lucas, all lies well.”

“Lizzy did not,” said Wollstonecraft reprovingly. “And she did not sleep because her shoulder pained her.”

“You will only aggravate the injury if you lay upon the ground or upon Wollstonecraft, instead of a mattress,” said Lieutenant Lucas. “When we reach Madrid, Colonel Dunne said you are to sleep in a proper bed, away from the night air.”

“Away from Wollstonecraft!” exclaimed Lizzy, aghast. 

“You do not take proper care of yourself and will only make your injury worse,” said Wollstonecraft. “Colonel Fitzwilliam agrees with me.”

“He does, does he?” Lizzy asked, turning to look at him in annoyance.

“You know, Bennet, the history of mankind has been a long progression away from sleeping out of doors on the ground,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, flushing. “Beds are, er... or well—”

He was very conscious of the last time they had shared a bed. 

Lizzy said flusteredly, “Oh you’re all ganging up against me. Wollstonecraft, does all lie well? Are we ready to go?”

Once they were in the air, she muttered to him, “Well, I suppose— Fitz, would it raise eyebrows or anything if I was billeted in a room next to yours?”

“I could probably manage it so that no one would,” he said, after a minute. “That is, if you—”

“I missed you,” she admitted, quietly, not looking at him. 

Colonel Fitzwilliam buried his face into the long, hand-knitted muffler Mrs. Smith had foisted on him that morning to hide his grin, and risked moving his gloved hand so that it rested next to Lizzy’s. “I slept very poorly last night, I must admit.”

She glanced at him shyly, and then away again, moving her hand a little, so that their smallest fingers touched. 

They dared not say much more, or anything more explicit, with the aviators are all worriedly coming up to Captain Bennet at every opportunity, to make sure she was well, or comfortable, or that she ate something, or drank enough water. Wollstonecraft’s crew had been as shaken by her absence as Wollstonecraft herself. 

Lizzy found this all irritating, rather than touching, and Colonel Fitzwilliam wondered how much of it was because it kept them— that was, himself and Lizzy— from speaking. It did feel odd not to have the chance to speak openly after three days of relying completely and totally upon the other, having no barriers and no secrets; to once again have to hide all he felt, when his chances of survival had relied on displaying his feelings so openly. He found himself constantly, distractingly aware of Lizzy— where she was, how she moved, the poise with which she sat or moved about on dragonback, the way she set her lips or fussed with her carabiner straps that meant she was annoyed, the particular way she straightened her shoulders before giving orders. 

Had she always been such a spectacularly physical presence?

When Lizzy got up to go check on her midwingmen, he tried not to look at her and ended up half jumping out of his skin when Lieutenant Lucas came up and said, “I beg your pardon sir—”

“Ah!”

“My apologies, colonel,” Lieutenant Lucas said, mildly alarmed. “I had no intention of startling you.”

“I was lost in thought, I beg your pardon. Are we landing?”

“No sir.” Lieutenant Lucas glanced over her shoulder, at where Lizzy, being very careful of her left side, was testing a midwingman’s ability to parry. “Good God, she cannot be still. She ought not to be swordfighting with her shoulder as it is, especially not when she was fighting yesterday.” Lieutenant Lucas shook her head. “I must ask you to pull rank again, colonel. Captain Bennet will not rest. I swear she did not sleep at all last night, and is too proud to admit today how much pain she’s in.” 

“I’ll send Lieutenant Dodds to you as soon as we land,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “He’s in charge of billeting. If you ask him to find rooms for more aviators than just Captain Bennet, she might feel less, er... awkward about it. Ask him to stick Captain Bennet in the room next to mine. I’ll make sure she rests. Station a soldier at the end of the hall or something, and call it security.”

“Thank you, colonel. I think your plan a good one. We have half-a-dozen officers who were injured in the ambush, and Captain Wentworth appears to have come down with a cold from hiding in a cave for three days. I can enlist Lieutenant Fairfax; she will agree that he likewise needs to sleep in a bed near a fireplace and away from his dragon.” Lieutenant Lucas cast a considering glance across Wollstonecraft’s back. “Speaking of the ambush— how do you think the French knew where we would be?”

“That I cannot answer,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “I haven’t....” He sighed and rubbed his face with a gloved hand. “For the past four days I’ve been too focused on surviving to give it much thought. I don’t think that Maestro Montoya lied to us. I think she must have been fed misinformation. I don’t even know if the French are, or can hatch all the dragons in Southern Spain.”

“My money’s on it being deliberate misinformation fed to us, so that they could ambush us far from the rest of the army,” said Lieutenant Lucas. “But I’ll sound out Maestro Montoya this evening— if you promise to make sure Captain Bennet sleeps.” 

He agreed to this, wryly thinking to himself that he would personally ensure she slept in a bed, too, but this might be taken wrongly. Lieutenant Lucas had warned him off of Lizzy before.

Once they landed, the aviators went back for the second half of the regiment, giving Colonel Fitzwilliam enough time to exercise his horses himself, and go chat with the quartermasters. He did not hear anything to confirm his suspicions that the story of the French dragon hatching had been planted, nor did he run into any exploring officer who had been anywhere near Ronda, but he managed to find apples for his horses, and, in the window of what he thought was a pawn shop, a present he couldn’t resist purchasing for Lizzy. After all, he reasoned to himself, as much as he wished her to, she couldn’t keep his signet ring, and she’d probably never been given jewelry by an admirer. 

That evening, he told his officers he would be working on his report of the whole Ronda incident with Captain Bennet and was amused and exasperated to see Mrs. Benwick in Lizzy’s room, casting judgment on the furnishings, comparing the feather mattress on Captain Bennet’s bed to her own, and complaining.  

“I’m fine, Lydia, really,” said Lizzy, exasperated. She looked rather hapless, bundled in a cocoon of shawls and blankets on a divan before the fire, staring longingly at a table on the other side of the fire, all set for two, with cloth, plates, and several covered dishes. 

“You fell off a dragon, sprained your shoulder, and had to hide in an inn full of French aviators for two days,” Mrs. Benwick protested. “You are not fine, and if Mama heard how you insisted on just immediately hitting Frenchmen in the face with trays and jumping into gorges as soon as you could, before you’d even gotten a real sling for your shoulder, she would  _ faint _ .”

“Oh God,” said Lizzy, sinking into her nest of blankets. “I did forget my mother would eventually hear of all this.”

“Wellington and Roland need to first,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Sorry Mrs. Benwick, but Captain Bennet and I need to discuss how we’re even to begin approaching such a report.”

“You can talk of all that in front of me,” Mrs. Benwick declared. “After all, I  _ am  _ next in line, should Wollstonecraft need a new captain.”

“You absolutely are not,” said Lizzy, flatly. 

Mrs. Benwick experimentally fluffed a pillow. “It’s not like I  _ want  _ such a dratted load of responsibility. And Wollstonecraft is so... you know Lizzy, she is very responsible and all, but she reminds me of Mary. So judgmental! Do you need all these pillows, Lizzy?”

Lizzy rubbed her forehead. “You can take it if you will let me alone to talk with Fitz about our report. And as you were not present during the events we must report, I am afraid that you will not be of much assistance.” 

“I will if you promise to sleep in a real bed tonight.”

Lizzy avoided looking at Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Promise. Now go back to your husband, I’m sure he’s missed you terribly in the half-hour you were apart.”

Mrs. Benwick skipped off, pillow in tow, shutting the door firmly. Colonel Fitzwilliam looked about the room, which was just as spacious and expensively furnished as his own. The house they had requisitioned for HQ had been some aristocratic family’s city mansion and Colonel Fitzwilliam thought that these had probably been the mistress’s chambers. In fact... he strolled to the wall and pushed on a likely bit of paneling. It swung open. “I thought so!” 

“That seems a security risk,” said Lizzy, freeing herself from all her blankets. “Where does that lead?”

“My room,” he replied. “Seems we’ve been given the master and mistress’s chambers, my dear. It’s a wonder you don’t have your own sitting room.”

Lizzy went over to the table, and waved to a door opposite. “There’s a dressing room over there, full of gowns I daren’t even look at, lest I smudge them. I do wonder what happened to the original owner.” 

“She and her husband are prisoners in France, I’m told.” He shut the door to his own room. 

“How did you know it was there? Some kind of aristocratic prerogative?”

“Basic familiarity with contemporary architecture. If, my dear, you spent more time sleeping indoors, you might have guessed too.”

Lizzy rolled her eyes at him, but fondly. “And you too now. Be nice to me, Fitz; not only did I sleep terribly last night, Lydia took charge of me, as she termed it, as soon as I stepped off Wollstonecraft. I’ve really endured far too much of how much I  _ inconvenienced  _ her by ending up in terrible danger when I did, in fact, think my death was imminent.” He leaned his arms on the back of the divan and looked at Lizzy, amused to hear her complain of Lydia Benwick’s unsuitability to be a dragon captain in the same way as Wollstonecraft. 

“What?” she asked, catching him smiling fondly at her. 

“I love you.” Colonel Fitzwilliam hadn’t meant to say it, but she had rather startled it out of him. 

Lizzy blushed and looked down at her dinner plate, saying archly, “As it so happens, I love you too.” 

Colonel Fitzwilliam glanced at the soup tureen before coming over to her. “How hungry are you darling? Could you put off your dinner for... half-an-hour or so?”

“For...?” Her blushed deepened, and she said, in a voice of scandalized pleasure, “Fitz! Do you really...?” 

“You think I can be satisfied by only one night with you, Lizzy?” Colonel Fitzwilliam approached her, hooked a finger into the harness strap still about her waist and lightly pulled her to him. “Darling, you’re in for a surprise if so.”

Lizzy breathed in sharply and flushed.

“Why Lizzy,” he said, smiling slowly. “I think you liked that.”

“I—“

He gave a sharp yank and she stumbled into him, bracing her right hand against his chest to keep from falling. Lizzy was very pink, her breathing uneven. Colonel Fitzwilliam hooked his fingers in other side of her harness, and pulled in until she was flush against him.

“ _ Oh _ ,” she said. “I think I do.”

He bent down to kiss her, and was very pleased by the passion of her response. It still astonished him, at times that someone as pretty, as clever, as accomplished, as  _ wonderful  _ as Captain Elizabeth Bennet could want him. And she evidently did want him. She was already fumbling with the buttons of his uniform coat, whimpering against his mouth. How could she want him so badly as this?

‘Must be love,’ he thought, dazed all with happiness. 

Lizzy impatiently pushed his coat down and off one of his shoulders. “Fitz, help me, will you?”

“Of course.” To pull off his coat was the work of a moment; he was pulling off his cravat and unbuttoning his waistcoat as Lizzy carefully slid her sling off her shoulder. He eased her coat off her shoulders and began unbuttoning her waistcoat before becoming far too distracted by her pulling at his shirttails, and then sliding her right hand up under his shirt, against his side.

What could he do but pause to kiss her then? Colonel Fitzwilliam palmed her breast, which probably did not do much good through the layers of waistcoat, shirt, stays, and shift, but she sighed into his mouth and pressed back against him, until he half-stumbled onto the table. He perched on the edge, drawing her between his spread legs. 

“Oh yes, please,” Lizzy whispered. “I have wanted you so badly, Fitz—”

He was distracted from answering by the sound of footsteps then the door suddenly banging open, Admiral Roland booming, “Lizzy, thank God you’re not dead!”

They sprang apart; or rather, Lizzy stumbled backwards, and nearly off her feet, flushing crimson, and Colonel Fitzwilliam nearly upset the table. He fell to the ground, hiding behind the tablecloth, all the glasses and plates on the tabletop rattling. 

“Admiral— Admiral Roland!” Lizzy gasped out. “You— I’m sorry, I thought Lydia had locked the door, I wasn’t expecting—”

By the sound of it, the door slammed shut. “I’m alone,” said Admiral Roland wryly. “I saw you’re not, and a hip hip hurrah to you for finally celebrating properly but just to be sure— you do know how to go about this all safely, right?”

Lizzy spared a somewhat panicked glance at Colonel Fitzwilliam, who remained frozen where he was in surprise and incredulity, and rushed past him towards Admiral Roland. “Um, er, well— with— with everything, I don’t trust Lydia to be Wollstonecraft’s captain, nor do I really want to rely on her children, so it— that is—”

“Understandable,” said Admiral Roland, “but if this has taught me anything it’s that we can’t spare you at present.”

“What exactly am I supposed to do then?” Lizzy asked, exasperated. “There’s no one else who can take on Wollstonecraft’s captaincy.”

“Yes, a double-edged sword without a guard. It'll cut you however you grip the naked blade. Listen, I’ve only heard what happened in bits and pieces but chances are this’ll be so impressive a story to the minds of the British public you’ll be sent back for parade duty. As soon as you hear you’re cleared for that, do what you think best, though it may be somewhat hard going doing the pretty to all the world while struggling with morning sickness. But right now, my dear, the French have proved cleverer than we gave them credit for... and they’re also damned terrified of you. I need you fighting ready.” Cloth rustling. “Here. Brought this sponge over for you, though I really expected just to tease you with it. I hadn’t really expected you to use it. If he isn’t gentleman enough to spend outside you, soak this in vinegar and stuff it up your—”

“Yes, thank you,” said Lizzy, much harassed. 

“— _ before  _ you let him have his fun,” Admiral Roland continued on, imperturbable. “We can debrief tomorrow. I’ll lock the door, shall I?”

“ _ Thank you Admiral Roland _ .”

Colonel Fitzwilliam heard the door slam and lock, then heard Captain Bennet drag a chair to the door, but didn’t move until Lizzy came back around the table and sank down to sit cross-legged before him. 

“Oh God,” said Lizzy, miserably, staring at the sea sponge in the bag Admiral Roland had given her. “Wellington never foists contraceptives on you, does he?”

“He only allows forty-eight hour leaves, if you’re not going back to old Blighty, so in a way, I suppose.” 

Lizzy cracked a smile but said, “I suppose— you heard my marching orders?”

“Hard to avoid it,” he joked, but seeing that she really was mortified, sat beside her and put his arms about her. “Honestly darling, it was something I’d meant to ask you about. I know we, er... I mean, we both thought we were going to die, so it didn’t really matter but, ah....”

She leaned back against him. “Admiral’s orders. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t,” he admitted. “Honestly, if I’d had any sense two days ago, I would have been a gentleman as Admiral Roland defined it.”

Lizzy looked up at him a little curiously. “I suppose— that is, with your other mistresses, you never had by-blows did you?”

“No.” But, seeing her not very reassured, Colonel Fitzwilliam said, “Er, look, darling, if you— I mean, I heard from Wollstonecraft even that you’re expected to— and if we have managed to— I wouldn’t abandon you. I hope you know that.”

Lizzy pressed her forehead against his right cheek, and patted his left. “Yes, and I also know your family's always in the public eye and hates scandal, so let’s hope nothing did happen.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam had to admit to that and also to the uncomfortable truth that he was terribly torn at the idea of having a child with Lizzy. He loved Lizzy with a strength that still surprised him, and he wanted her as he had never wanted anyone in his life, and understood the certain pressures on her— though he didn’t understand how the issue of there being no other possible candidate to captain Wollstonecraft could entirely resolve given that she both had to remain Wollstonecraft’s captain and apparently produce the next one- but he allowed himself to think of his family back in England and how they might react to the news that he had a bastard child with a female dragon captain. 

God, that didn’t bear thinking of. 

“It— look darling, what are you hoping for?”

Lizzy looked up at him, worrying at her lower lip; Colonel Fitzwilliam slid his arms around her waist. “I suppose— look Fitz, I’d happily have your child, I can’t imagine a better sire, but I don’t know how I’d explain it, particularly when I think Admiral Roland’s hinting that she built some strategies that rely on me being very visibly in battle. I’m fine with her orders. I rather hope I haven’t mucked them up already.” 

Colonel Fitzwilliam couldn’t help his relief from showing. “Honestly, darling, I’ve no idea how I’d explain it to my family, either. It’s alright.” He kissed her hair as she buried her face against his shoulder. “And there are things we can do that carry no risk of pregnancy.”

Lizzy made a muffled noise of inquiry. 

“You liked it well enough when I kissed you down here—” Moving his hand very deliberately. 

That made her raise her head. “ _ Well enough _ ? Fitz, if there’s no chance of my getting pregnant from it, I’d do it every day. But surely you don’t—”

“You can return the favor, or just give me a hand afterwards.” She elbowed him for the pun, but in a fond way. “Work for you darling?”

“We can try and see. Oh, but—” Lizzy glanced at where her left hand rested on his chest. “I’ve still got your signet. I ought to return it.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam felt a pang at this, but fortunately recalled, “I’ve something in my trouser pocket.”

Lizzy looked at him in confusion. “What, did you just sit on it?”

“No, I just remembered I got a present for you. I’ll trade you for the signet.” He fumbled for it and then pulled out the handkerchief wrapped bundle. 

“It’s a dragon,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, a little anxiously, as she studied the Toledo steel bracelet now exposed. “See, it loops around. And if you pull the head and wings—” 

Lizzy did so, and out slid a thin, flexible knife of Toledo steel. 

“The wings are a sort of guard,” he said, now rather worried she wouldn’t like it. She almost never wore jewelry. “It’s— that is, I thought, it’d be something you could always have with you, in uniform or out of it, and you’d never be without a weapon— oh God, you’re crying. Did I really do that poor a job picking it out?”

“No, no,” she hastened to assure him, sliding the knife back in, and then sliding the bracelet itself onto her left wrist. “It’s just— it’s absolutely perfect, Fitz.”

He was terribly afraid she was just saying this, and babbled, “It— I can get you something better, you know— it’s just— I liked the idea of your always having something I got you that could serve as protection—”

Lizzy cut him off by kissing him.

“I suppose you like it,” he said, a little dazedly, as Lizzy began pulling at his shirt. 

“Terribly,” she got out. “I’m just— Fitz! You got me jewelry! I didn’t think that— I mean, I’m perfectly capable of buying my own bracelets and all, but you found it and thought of me and... I don’t know! I didn’t think that was a thing any man would do for me and now I’m crying when I really do love it. And you. Oh wait, before I forget.” She took off his ring and slid it back onto his left little finger. The gold was still warm from her skin. 

“Come on,” he said, “I promised half a dozen people you’d sleep in a bed tonight.”

“We’ll get there eventually,” Lizzy said, pushing him back, onto the rug before the fire. “But not quite yet.” 


	12. In which Captain Bennet gains a new nickname

“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” said Wellington, a week later. “I must commend you for writing the first report that has made me laugh out of genuine amusement rather than despair. I was particularly struck the fact that you escaped Ronda by knocking a French officer off his horse—”

Colonel Fitzwilliam bit back the absurd need to protest that he had apologized for it, and the French officer had been unconscious anyhow.

“— and then, after losing your pursuers, and seeing the bridge before you destroyed, jumping from horseback onto Gherni, one of the little feral dragons attached to your light company. A feat worthy of Astley’s Amphitheatre.”

“Ah, thank you, Your Grace,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam.

“What caused you to perform such a feat?”

“I was unwilling to die, sir.”

Wellington let out a rare laugh. “The motto of every soldier. But well done. I have something to offer you of more value than the clasp the government will inevitably give you. Moncey!”

A small purple dragon, roughly the size of Gherni paraded into the tent. It raised a foreleg to its forehead. “Sir!”

“This is Moncey, one of my exploring officers,” said Wellington. “Moncey, this is Colonel Fitzwilliam, of the Mixed Model Division.”

Moncey pulled himself up on his back legs and eyed Colonel Fitzwilliam, looking rather impressed. “I say! Bang up job, old chap.” At Colonel Fitzwilliam’s puzzled look, Moncey said, “Really, I mean to say—  everyone’s heard. The story’s all over the camp.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam felt a faint stir of misgiving.  “What story, exactly?”

Moncey sat back on his haunches, like a fellow officer sitting in an easy chair at the club. “The French set up a very neatish little trick to try and destroy our dear old monstrous regiment, but you and Captain Bennet managed not only to evade capture but to flag down a band of guerillas. Then the whole lot of you managed to hide from a French heavyweight crew while _trapped in an inn_ together for three days by pretending to be a wedding party! _Then_ , the French captured Captain Wentworth! ‘Not on my watch,’ says Captain Bennet, and even though she’s busted her shoulder, she gives the French the old what for, and rescues him. Then the three of you fought your way out single-handedly! Laconia says Captain Bennet jumped into a gorge to land on Wollstonecraft, and Gherni tells anyone who will listen that she taught you how to jump from your horse up onto her back, and that it was the saving of you.”

This wasn’t too far from the truth, and included no salacious dealings with Captain Bennet, so Colonel Fitzwilliam first gave credit to the guerillas before asking, “What do you mean a trick?”

“The French ain’t hatching all the dragon eggs in Ronda,” said Moncey frankly. “They’ve moved ‘em all to a garrison at Burgos. They knew that Maestro Montoya is your scout, and they cooked up a story that would worry her enough she’d immediately fly back to report it, and one that would set all the rest of you to action as soon as may be. They wanted to destroy your division. It’s the most effective one on the Peninsula.”

“They truly think that?” asked Colonel Fitzwilliam, flattered and flabbergasted.

Wellington snorted. “You _are_ our most effective division. Not that you have much competition.”

“Thank you, sir.” Colonel Fitzwilliam felt thoroughly bewildered. “But—  I don’t entirely understand. You know, do you not sir, that I have been tracing the French attempts to take our steel?”

“I do.”

“What do they need it for, if not for dragon harnesses?”

“Now _that_ is a piece of excellent news," said Wellington, with a gleam of real amusement. "I’ve had a courier straight from London, from my brother Wellesey.” This being the Marquess Wellesley, the Foreign Secretary. “France is at war with Russia.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam blinked. “The last I was at home, Napoleon was more in love with Tsar Alexander than he was with the former Empress Josephine.”

“Apparently a one-sided affair,” said Wellington. “Russia and France are definitively at war. My brother’s brought up that damned rascal Captain Laurence _and_ his Jacobin beast Temeraire up from Australia to try and get the Chinese to come to our aid. An ask only made possibly by your division’s actions, by the by. Moncey here has confirmed it.”

Moncey scratched the underside of his scaley jaw with a claw. “All the French dragons were griping. Supply’s been rerouted to the Russian campaign. All the French troops here are required to live off of the land.”

“After the invasion of ‘05, we know how to deal with _that_.” Wellington nodded at the dragon. “Thank you Moncey.”

“Sir!” The dragon saluted before trotting back out of the tent.

Colonel Fitzwilliam waited until he was sure no one else was about before asking, “Does Admiral Roland know about Captain Laurence?”

“I believe so, judging by the way she’s been yelling at her division today.” Wellington flipped idly through Colonel Fitzwilliam’s report. “Are you and Captain Bennet going to be able to work together after such tumultuous nuptials?”

The question had been posed abruptly, though Colonel Fitzwilliam could see how the first thought had given rise to the second. Colonel Fitzwilliam had been concerned with such a parallel as soon as he had realized he had fallen in love with Captain Bennet. He could reply, with perfect confidence, “Of course, sir. Captain Bennet and I always get along well, and we did when we were trapped in Ronda. There was a little awkwardness at first, but there is nothing to worry about, sir. We are even better friends than we were before.”

“Had her, have you?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam flushed scarlet. “Sir!”

“Well, why wouldn’t you?” Wellington asked, raising an eyebrow. “What else would the two of you had to do, while hiding from the French? She’s a pretty little thing. Any man would. _I_ certainly would.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam drew himself upright and said, very coldly, “Captain Bennet is my co-leader in the division, sir. I would ask you not to speak of her in this fashion.”

Wellington rolled his eyes. “Heaven save us from the gallantries of young lovers. Very well, have it or don’t have it in whatever fashion you please. But my point still stands. Don’t let anything muck up your working relationship. We are going to push on to the Pyrenees by this winter, since the French are distracted by the Russian conflict. Admiral Roland’s told me Captain Bennet needs six weeks more for her shoulder to heal. Once that time’s up, your division’s on the front lines. Admiral Roland’s got some damn fine new strategies. Perscitia’s refining it now. I’ll try to re-assign as many men to your division as I can. Use these six weeks wisely.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam bowed, and then gratefully made his way outside.

The six weeks given him merely to train new men felt like unimaginable luxury—  and better still, six weeks in Madrid, in a very comfortable house in a bedroom that connected to Lizzy’s. He was very cheerful as he left HQ, his bright mood dimming only when he saw Lieutenant Lucas very purposefully loitering outside. Lieutenant Lucas was not a person made for loitering; she was made for steady activity. Seeing her leaning against a wall, staring at HQ, made Colonel Fitzwilliam feel as if something was not quite right. It was like watching a horse walking down Bond Street on only it’s hind legs.

Still, Colonel Fitzwilliam nodded to her, as an ensign went to fetch Dulcinea.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Lieutenant Lucas said, inclining her head in response. “Are you walking back to division HQ?”

“Riding, but, I can lead Dulcinea.” He accepted the reins from the ensign and followed Lieutenant Lucas. Dulcinea trotted along prettily, only occasionally nosing at his epaulettes, in the hopes that all the useless gold braid had turned into useful biscuit.

Lieutenant Lucas had more self-command than most aerial officers and walked beside him not in the lackadaisical, half-slouched fashion of the others, but with her hands clasped behind her back naval-style. They walked on in silence until they were out of sight of HQ. “Did Captain Bennet ever tell you the result of my discussion with Maestro Montoya?”

“No, but we, ah—  the report on the whole… Ronda incident has been tricky. We’ve been talking over _what_ happened more than why it happened.”

“I trust Maestro Montoya,” said Lieutenant Lucas. “But I do not trust the information she was given. I think we were lured into an ambush.”

“We were—  and a very well crafted one too. I’ve heard something today which I think might shed light on the whole incident.” He filled in Lieutenant Lucas on Moncey’s report and ended with, “Do you think Maestro Montoya would prefer to hear this from me, or from someone else?”

“I think Captain Bennet ought to deliver it,” replied Lieutenant Lucas. “She’s always tremendously courteous when delivering bad news. Which is no slight against you, sir. It is only that I think Maestro Montoya would be relieved to know her commanding officer does not hold this incident against her.”

“Very true. I’ll tell Captain Bennet once I get back to our own headquarters.”

Lieutenant Lucas looked very carefully and purposefully at an empty spot in the sky. “You and Captain Bennet seem to have become very close, following the whole… incident. At Ronda.”

“Er,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, already off-kilter from Wellington’s observation. “I— yes, that is fair to say. There isn’t anyone I trust more than Captain Bennet.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

He was uncomfortably aware that Lieutenant Lucas _knew._ “There is no one I respect as much as Captain Bennet. There is no one I hold in higher esteem.”

Lieutenant Lucas smiled a little.

Colonel Fitzwilliam sank into a flustered silence, unsure what Lieutenant Lucas wanted from him. He wanted the conversation to end. And yet— he did not want Lieutenant Lucas to think he had willfully ignored her warning, or that he was not alive to the very specific set of expectations laid upon Captain Bennet. He said, carefully, “It is mostly thanks to Captain Bennet that we survived Ronda at all. She took the lead.” God that did make him sound like a boor, absolving himself of all responsibility. “That is— er— she is a better actress than I am an actor. And of course she could beat me in any kind of fight, literally one-handed.”

“And you,” said Lieutenant Lucas, “would risk your life and jump off of a falling dragon mid-battle, if it meant a chance at saving hers.”

“Yes.” He was both proud and embarrassed to admit it. “I suppose you saw that.”

“Yes, I was watching for Captain Bennet as she fell.” Lieutenant Lucas looked sideways at him. “I know I can never keep Captain Bennet from the fights coming to her, but it is my duty both as her first lieutenant and as her friend to ensure she does not charge into battles where she’s likely to lose.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam was uncomfortably aware that the subtext of their conversation was becoming text. He cleared his throat.

Lieutenant Lucas continued on calmly, as if speaking to the air, “If you care about a person you protect them.”

“In that we are agreed,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “I would never harm or allow harm to come to someone I cared about, if I could prevent it.”

A nod at this. “I did not think otherwise.”

“Then I must confess myself a little… puzzled.”

“I see more than most,” said Lieutenant Lucas, “so don’t be alarmed when I say that I have seen the change in the way you treat each other. Now you are back, you must ensure no one else sees. I’ve spoken to Captain Bennet about it, and she was so mortified she holed up in her room for the rest of the day.”

“Which wasn’t your secondary objective at all.”

Lieutenant Lucas smiled shrewdly.

“I promise you,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “I mean to be her ally in the battles ahead.”

“Good.” Lieutenant Lucas looked up, shading her eyes to observe a formation of Spanish dragons wheeling overhead. “I do not say these things because I do not trust you. I say it because I know you, sir. I know you take in new information and change your behavior based on what you have learned.” A wry smile. “And I also know Captain Bennet She won’t know what to do here— can I rely on you to help her?”

“You can.”

Lieutenant Lucas turned to study him. “Yes. I think I can.”

He was in an odd mood when he returned to his room, and could not concentrate on the reports before him.

“You should get yourself looked at by the doctor again,” his batman Pattinson grumbled. “Does nobody a lick of good if you was to drop dead, sir.”

“Do the French a great deal of good,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. He leaned his elbow on his desk and massaged the bridge of his nose. “Alright. Let me see if sleep will help before you send for Colonel Dunne.”

Of course, he did not sleep. He listened at the locked door to the hall for Pattinson to finish self-importantly informing the guard that no one, _not even Admiral Roland or General Wellington_ were to pass, and then knocked on the door to Lizzy’s room.

He heard a thump, and then her footsteps, slower than usual—  and he fancied her heard the yawn in her voice as Lizzy said, “That you, Fitz?”

“Who else could it be, darling?”

The door opened, revealing Lizzy still in her nightgown, her arm in a sling and her hair falling out of its sleeping braid. Lizzy looked drowsy. “Have a heart Fitz, I just woke up. Thought I might have mixed up the doors.”

He could not resist putting his arms about her. Lizzy leaned her head into his chest, still seeming half-asleep.

“I’m supposed to be resting too,” he admitted.

“Capital. Come nap with me, then, my bed’s the most comfortable thing in the world.”

“We may yet convert you to sleeping indoors.”

“I can admit when I am wrong,” she said loftily, pulling back. “Feather beds are marvelous inventions and sleeping in a room of one’s own, with no one to bother you and total command over who’s sleeping by you—  God, what a luxury! I do not know if I will be able to give it up.”

“You can put it off for six weeks more,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, following her into the room. “We’re in Madrid until your shoulder heals.”

Lizzy climbed back into the bed and sank with a sigh into the mattress, under the duvet. “Mmm. Suppose Wellington told you that?”

“Mm-hmm.” He had left his uniform coat in his room, but began to divest himself of cravat, waistcoat, boots, and trousers as he summarized the meeting. It seemed right to mention running into Lieutenant Lucas, and Lieutenant Lucas’s advice Lizzy talk to Maestro Montoya.

“Oh poor lamb,” said Lizzy. “Of course I shall talk to her. Maestro Montoya must be in absolute agonies over all this. I’ll invite her to dine with me tonight.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam climbed into bed beside her, but instead of nestling against him, as was her usual habit, Lizzy flopped onto her stomach and groaned into a pillow. “God. I’d forgotten until this moment, but I had the most mortifying conversation of my entire life with Charlotte this morning. Admiral Roland had to reschedule our meeting, because Wellington told her he’d heard from his brother that Captain Laurence was being given his rank back and sent to China, and Admiral Roland was in too much a fury to meet about Ronda. I was ranting to Charlotte about it and Charlotte said, I needed to be careful I didn’t find myself in the same situation, and I said what the hell do you mean by that and she said I really needed to stop being so bloody obvious.”

“I would never defect to France, let alone leave behind only a love letter where I confessed to my crime,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam.

“I’d run you through, rather than turn it into the Admiralty anyhow,” said Lizzy, with a flicker of her usual cheekiness.

He tried to smooth an errant strand of hair back into Lizzy’s braid, but it fell back into its previous place as soon as he attempted it. “Please do, if I am ever that lost to myself. Though—  Lizzy, I do want to assure you I shall do everything I can to ensure— ” He paused, tried to think of the best way to phrase it. “I dislike thinking anyone would think less of you, because you had the bad luck to fall in love with me.”

Lizzy nestled against his side with a snort. “Bad luck! Lord, Fitz, I wish you thought as highly of yourself as _I_ think of you. But I do understand what you mean—  I really think it is just because we are honeymooning now that Charlotte caught on. We’ll go back to Bennet and Fitz in public once we get used to the fact that we’re the happiest people on earth.”

“I am not sure I shall ever get used to that.”

“You can be terribly romantic sometimes,” Lizzy said sleepily, into his side. “I always suspected that about you, but it is so nice to have my judgment confirmed.”

Though six weeks later Colonel Fitzwilliam still had moments where he was dazzled by his good fortune, the habits of campaign made the habit of calling Lizzy ‘Bennet’ return. From there it was an easy to their usual jokey friendliness in public. He fancied no one else caught on, and those that had warned him previously said nothing to him now. Once, when he had been dining alone with Lizzy and Captain Wentworth, he had fancied Captain Wentworth _suspected_ something, but then when Lizzy asked what was wrong, Captain Wentworth said he was about to cast up his accounts, Lizzy scolded him for being out of bed when he was still obviously ill, and the evening ended quickly thereafter.

What was of greater concern was making sure their division was fighting ready once again. Colonel Fitzwilliam had all his usual problems of supply. Useful as it was to know that the French were living off the countryside, and stealing British supplies to augment this, it did not alter the material reality that they were doing so. It was difficult to get supplies from Portugal, let alone from England, this far into Spain.

Colonel Fitzwilliam got into the habit of bringing Wollstonecraft to the supply depots. As he had discovered during the course of the Wickham debacle, Wollstonecraft had a way about her that encouraged men to speak to her honestly… and, as he then witnessed, she had ways of discouraging dishonesty that were remarkable efficacious.

Then, too, as news traveled of his report and his exploits, Colonel Fitzwilliam found himself treated with a hitherto unknown level of deference and respect. On the rare occasions he did not visit supply depots with Wollstonecraft, he got nearly everything he asked for. Other officers made way for him; common men and orderlies rushed to do as he asked. Everyone seemed to watch him when he was practicing stupid horse tricks, or playing about with Gherni, and they often _applauded_ his circus acrobatics. Some cavalry officers tried to copy him. Several young ladies of Madrid called him _dashing._ This bemused Colonel Fitzwilliam greatly. He had never had a reputation for being a _dashing_ officer before—  merely a competent and shrewd one. Before this point, his most dashing feat had been the capture of Captain Wickham, and that, as everyone well knew, had been the result of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s maneouvering Captain Wickham over a loose plank and then causing said plank to hit Captain Wickham between the legs.

An amusing defeat, to be sure, but hardly something to capture the imagination.

But his jumping to grab Captain Bennet before she fell to her death, the subsequent playacting, their fighting their way out of the inn, and then his dramatic leap from horseback to dragonback—  that so fired up the British public it _did_ become a show at Astley’s Amphitheatre. Lizzy found it all terribly amusing, though Colonel Fitzwilliam found it mortifying and immediately wrote to all his family, to demand whether or not the reports were true.

‘ _They are_   _true_ ,’ Darcy reported by letter. ‘ _There is to be an equestrian show inspired by the Battle of Ronda. They are bringing in dragons as well. Mr. Astley himself attempted to call upon me, to ask if he might hire Delicium. As it is, he and his staff have been painting Greylings to resemble all other dragons. Georgiana thought it would be good fun for Delicium, especially since all the Greylings are as friendly as lapdogs… and about as intelligent. There is no doubt in my mind that Delicium would be accidentally injured by the paper-mache tusks of “Wollstonecraft” because the Greyling enlisted in playing the part would forget they are attached. Georgiana protested I was being unfair to the Greylings. I was forced to tell Georgiana that the Fitzwilliams had been dragged into this enough as it was, given that Mr. Astley’s own son proposes to play you and to copy your leap from horseback to dragonback eight times a week. I had to enlist Miss Woodhouse to fully distract Georgiana from this project and onto another one.’_

Colonel Fitzwilliam replied by dragon courier, feeling alarmed and embarrassed. _‘I suppose that it cannot be stopped? It seems beneath the family's dignity._ ’ He had to ask after various family members before working up the nerve to ask _, ‘Is there a script for this proposed scenario, or is it all stunt riding? I am worried as to what words they shall put into my mouth, or, worse, Captain Bennet’s. She has not the influence our family does, and I am greatly concerned that some impropriety might be attached to her. It would grieve me beyond anything to have her reputation ruined because we did what we must to evade capture or death by the French._ ’ Even that seemed too bald; Colonel Fitzwilliam added a rather flimsy final paragraph asking about Miss Woodhouse’s friendship with Georgiana.

Darcy understood what he was about; his next letter, kindly hand-carried over by Volly and Captain James, read, ‘ _Your father returned from Bath yesterday and was not best pleased at the news. He went to demand Mr. Astley shut down the show, but made the mistake of taking his grandchildren with him. They were so enchanted by the spectacle, half-formed as it was, that His Lordship could not demand the show be ended entirely, but he reassured us all at dinner that it was only stunt riding. No one spoke at all, or will speak, and as far as Captain Bennet is concerned—  there is some species of Harlequinade where an actress in a breeches role puts on a gown over her uniform and plays at being a lady with exaggerated distress. I think that is all._ ’ Then kindly, but wrongly intuiting Colonel Fitzwilliam’s fears on that head, Darcy added, ‘ _To watch the performance, no one would think Captain Bennet could know any life but that of the corps._ ’

 _‘I beg you will insist that the Harlequinade be excised from the piece at once,’_ Colonel Fitzwilliam immediately wrote to his father via governmental dragon courier. He tried to soften it with a paragraph saying, _‘I have an absolute horror of anything but stunt riding in this. I cannot think circus performers would be delicate in their handling of the incident, or would do credit to our honor as a family. I would rather the piece not be performed at all, but as Darcy tells me it cannot be stopped, please, sir, use your influence to make sure the Battle of Ronda is treated with the seriousness it deserves.’_ After staring at the letter half the evening, Colonel Fitzwilliam added a couple of half-illegible lines, reading, ‘ _I was convinced every minute that I would die, and Captain Bennet likewise, that at any moment the French would realize who we were—  and it was only Captain Bennet’s coolness under pressure, and her ability as an actress that saved us. I cannot bear to think of her saving my life as she did being turned into a broad jest so John Bull can entertain his children on a Saturday afternoon.’_

‘ _You may rest assured it has been excised from the piece_ ,’ the Earl of Matlock wrote back immediately—  or rather, as his secretary wrote, for the Earl of Matlock’s rheumatism made writing difficult. ‘ _I had been working on it already—  I am planning on petitioning the Prince Regent to give you a knighthood once he is come back from Brighton, and to have you associated with a harlequinade in His Highness’s mind would be injurious to that end. That is not to say that I do not understand your feelings. Your delicacy in this does you credit. I am aware of the difficulties Captain Bennet faces, and your mother and I are eager to promote her career, and that of other women in the corps—  and especially to insist upon its respectability. We shall not let anything threaten that. Focus on the French, my boy. We shall fight the English._ ’ Then, in his own now cramped and shaky hand, the Earl had written, ‘ _I am very proud of you, Richard. You have brought great honor to the whole family by your conduct.’_ Then, as that had come perilously close to sentiment, the Earl had added, _‘Your mother wishes you to ask for leave this winter. She believes that your cousin Darcy will be married then._ ’

As his mother could not ask dragon couriers to ferry her correspondence, the mystery of Darcy’s upcoming nuptials could not be solved until nearly the end of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s sixweek leave.

The Countess of Matlock had written, ‘ _Your Aunt Catherine is about to call up her militia again, for Darcy has finally expressed an inclination to marry… and it is not Anne! I could have told her Darcy would never marry Anne anytime these twenty years and more, but as they say—  discretion is the better part of valor, and I have always been valorous when facing your Aunt Catherine. Your cousin Darcy is much in the company of a Miss Emma Woodhouse of Hartfield. I understand she and her sister— Mrs. John Knightly— are co-heiresses of Hartfield, and that she has a very pretty fortune besides. She does not have the connections I would usually wish for any member of our family, but her family is respectable, and as Marjorie pointed out, there are hardly any Whig families left to marry into! I was at a dinner with her the other evening. I think she is pretty. She_ certainly _is clever. She held her own against Darcy in one of his debating moods, which not many women have the strength or courage to do. I fancy she will be a Darcy by Christmas._ ’

Marjorie echoed this report, in a letter that arrived once the division had been given orders to move on Burgos. ‘ _You will never believe it, brother dear, but our Darcy is in love! Miss Woodhouse of Hartfield has vanquished him utterly. He lost a debate to her about when a person ought to give into the persuasion of one’s friends and has been entirely unable to keep his eyes off her since then. I have tried to give some hints that staring at a lady is not the best way of informing her of one’s tenderer feelings, but it seems I have been too subtle. Miss Woodhouse has no idea Darcy is interested in her; indeed, she is trying to fix him up with an old schoolfellow of mine, Miss Anne Elliot, Sir Walter Elliot’s daughter. It really is the most magnificent farce. And, speaking of farces—  you may rest assure there will be none in the Astley Show.’_

And thank God for that—  ending the siege at Burgos was a tricky enough problem as it was. General Dubreton and his forces had retreated there and refused to surrender the castle, for it contained nearly every Spanish dragon egg in the south. The siege had dragged on into a muddy and dispiriting stalemate as all the British engineers had been either killed or grievously injured. Wellington and Roland had determined that a surprise attack by night, and particularly a cloudy night would be best. The Mixed Model Division set out at nightfall, and flew above the clouds, shivering all the way.

Colonel Fitzwilliam became worried that his men would not be able to use their guns or swords, until Maestro Montoya winged over. She was still furious over having been tricked, and hell bent on revenge. 

“If you will allow Fezzik to land on Captain Crawford’s dragon, he can heat water for tea,” she called though speaking trumpet.

“An excellent idea,” Colonel Fitzwilliam called back. He grabbed onto the guideropes and walked down Wollstonecraft’s back to where Gowing sat. “Pass the word that all men will get tea. Have the captains organize distribution but make sure the light company gets theirs first. They’ve work to do.”

When they arrived just over Burgos, Maestro Montoya dipped below cloud cover to confirm where they were and rose up again. “On target!”

Lizzy nodded. “Are your men ready, Colonel Fitzwilliam?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam accepted the lantern an aide gave him and swept the beam of light over the ferals. The men of his light company saluted.

“All ready, Captain Bennet.”

“On my signal,” called Lizzy. “Now!”

The ferals silently dropped down out of the clouds, to deposit Colonel Fitzwilliam’s light company on the ramparts. This was a nerve-wracking piece of business, for Colonel Fitzwilliam did not know how effective the company might be, and Admiral Roland had vetoed Colonel Fitzwilliam’s wish to ride Gherni, and keep an eye on the men himself. (“You aren’t nearly skilled enough as a flyer for that,” Admiral Roland had opined. "You'll fall arse over teakettle onto the ramparts as soon as a Pecheur-Vite rams into Gherni's side.")

After about ten minutes, the noise of a guard bell came clanging up to them.

“Make ready,” called Lizzy. “Laconia and Attia—  now!”

Colonel Fitzwilliam seized tightly onto the harness as the company burst through the cloud cover, Attia and Laconia on either side of Wollstonecraft, and Antiope behind.

They flew swiftly down towards the castle, and, seeing the French guard dragons too occupied with chasing the ferals away from the egg nursery to notice them, took their chance.

“Now, Wollstonecraft!” cried Lizzy.

Wollstonecraft spat acid at the south wall, where the largest mine had been dug. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s men braced themselves.

“Be sure to pull your parachutes!” Colonel Fitzwilliam called out. “And if you see a fellow who hasn’t, either grab him to make sure he doesn’t break his legs landing, or pull his chute for him. Understood?”

At the chorus of “yes, sir!”s, Wollstonecraft took an abrupt turn and the men on her back all parachuted down to the east wall, as the men on Antiope parachuted down to the west. Laconia launched herself into the fray above the center of the castle, freeing Attia to guard the east wall when Wollstonecraft returned to her acid spitting at the south wall.

A great, almost intelligible cry came up from the French.

Colonel Fitzwilliam glanced over at Lizzy, who was staring through her telescope at the melting top of the south wall. “I may be hearing things Bennet, but I could swear that the French recognized us.”

A French Flamme-de-gloire rose up, roaring in French, “You monsters are not welcome here!”

“How rude,” said Wollstonecraft, and spit acid straight in the Flamme-de-gloire’s eyes. It fell backwards, keening horribly.

“Bombs away,” called out Lizzy.

The crew in the belly netting tossed down their bombs on the weakened south wall and then—  thank God— the mine below detonated.

The south wall crumbled.

Almost immediately came overlapping cries of surrender. The French flag was lowered, and a white bedsheet raised up in its place.

“That was remarkably easy,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, scratching his forehead, above the aviator’s goggles he had acquired.

Lizzy pushed up hers. “Suspiciously so.” She called over her shoulder, “Lieutenant Lucas! Signal to Laconia. Have her land. I trust Captain Wentworth to either accept the surrender with gallantry, or fight his way out of a trap. Signal to prepare for both.”

But it was a surrender—  for, as it turned out, the French _had_ recognized Wollstonecraft and were _utterly terrified._

As soon as Colonel Fitzwilliam and Lizzy jumped down off dragonback, the camp followers and wives of officers—  as well as a number of enlisted men and officers themselves, who were all lined up under the bewildered stare of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s officers—  began crying and screaming for mercy.

“Ah, hello,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam uncomfortably. “Is, ah. Is General Dubreton here?”

A French aviator flung himself at Lizzy’s feet. “Please! Please spare Mort-aux-Aristocrates! Do not kill her as you killed Destinée!”

“I am sorry to hear Destinée was killed,” said Captain Bennet. “Please be assured I have no intention of killing….” She leaned over to Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Did he say his dragon’s called Death to Aristocrats?”

“Yes.”

“I had heard that some dragons changed their names during the Revolution,” said Wollstonecraft, with a sniff. “This is what comes of throwing over order.”

General Dubreton had at this point been located and was fumbling with his sword as Colonel Fitzwilliam approached.

“Good evening sir,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, in his Etonian-accented French. “I am told you wish to surrender Burgos to us?”

“Yes, sir, we beg you to spare us,” said General Dubreton. “And do not visit your wrath upon the civilians here, and the women and children. They have done nothing.”

“We would never,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, appalled. “Good God, sir, you may rest assured that any man who surrenders will be peacefully taken prisoner, and all civilians will go unmolested.”

General Dubreton paled upon seeing Lizzy approach and stammered out, “You—  you are Captain Bennet, I take it?”

Lizzy bowed. "I am."

“You will—  you will agree to what this infantry officer has agreed?”

“Of course,” Lizzy said, very puzzled. “Really, I don’t make a habit of harassing civilians.” There was a crumbling noise behind them; some of the ferals had tried to land on a mostly intact bit of the southern wall and it had crumbled beneath them. Lizzy excused herself and strode off shouting, “Get _down_ from there! You _know_ you aren’t supposed to be up there, it’s not structurally sound!”

General Dubreton offered Colonel Fitzwilliam his sword. “You are sure, sir, that Captain Bennet will accept our surrender peacefully?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam bowed and accepted it. “I am, sir. Why are you asking?”  

General Dubreton stared at him in incredulity. “Why am I asking if the Fury of Ronda will spare my men, and their women and children? Is it not true that when we separated Captain Bennet from her dragon, and took her officer, Captain Wentworth, prisoner, she took revenge by luring the crews of Destinée and Brumaire to Ronda, where she infiltrated a wedding party, before she and Wollstonecraft slaughtered all officers and dragons in revenge, and a whole wedding party likewise? An aviator who was there told me that the bride jumped into a canyon in despair.”

“Ah… hm,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, scratching his forehead again. “That’s… not exactly what happened. I can assure you of that; I was there.”

General Dubreton looked on him with shock. “You are Colonel Fitzwilliam.”

“Oh dear. What did you hear I did?”

“Did you not leap over a gorge to land on a feral dragon and immediately fly it to safety?”

“Uh—  well, in a manner of speaking I did, but— ”

But there wasn’t time to talk more; Wellington appeared. He had ridden up from the camp at the base of Burgos to receive General Dubreton’s sword, and above, one could see the shape of Excidium. Colonel Fitzwilliam was extremely proud to turn over the sword, and prouder still at Wellington’s “Remarkable work, Colonel Fitzwilliam! I am extremely pleased at your dispatch.”

“I think it was mostly the result of Captain Bennet’s reputation rather than anything else, sir,” protested Colonel Fitzwilliam.

Wellington’s horse Copenhagen pawed the ground, as if in disbelief.

“It is true, sir.” He switched back to French. “General Dubreton, will you kindly tell His Grace, the Duke of Wellington what you have told me?”

Wellington listened to this recital stoically, only the corner of his mouth twitching to indicate amusement. What had become nearly a farce in England had become a horror story in the French forces in Spain. Colonel Fitzwilliam was alarmed to hear that Captain Wentworth had apparently strangled Brumaire’s captain and all the officers with his bare hands (which _certainly_ hadn’t happened; Captain Wentworth had stabbed the other captain in battle, and at least two of Brumaire’s officers were in British custody as prisoners of war), and that Captain Bennet had apparently slaughtered the entire Spanish wedding party, as no French aviator had ever seen them again.

Colonel Fitzwilliam was tempted to explain that the wedding party had been comprised entirely of guerillas, but General Wellington interrupted with, “Yes, she is an Amazon, isn’t she? Captain Bennet is one of the most ferocious women of my acquaintance. Colonel Fitzwilliam, with me.”

Someone had commandeered a French horse; Colonel Fitzwilliam leapt up into the saddle, and followed Wellington.

“Sir,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “What the French are saying is— ”

“Tremendously useful.” Wellington let out a crack of laughter and looked down at Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Remind me to tell all my intelligence officers to encourage such a report. We’ll be in France by December, at this rate.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam did not like this, until Wellington reported this history to Admiral Roland and Lizzy, and the two aviatrixes laughed so hard they began to cry.

“Incredible,” gasped out Captain Bennet. “All this time, Admiral, I was so worried it would get out that—  that I had injured my shoulder, and someone would go straight for it in battle but—  I’m the terror of the British aerial corps. Oh I am so delighted, I never imagined this!”

“Just fancy what the reward for your capture must be now, Lizzy,” said Admiral Roland, wiping her tears away. “My God, I needed that laugh.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam waited until Captain Bennet had snuck into his room that night to ask, “Lizzy, you really don’t mind?”

She tossed her coat onto the floor, and Colonel Fitzwilliam absently picked it up, shook it out and draped it over the back of a chair. “Mind? Fitz, I can’t tell you how relieved I am. I know you and I both feared….”

He nodded.

Lizzy grinned. “I hope the French rumors will make it across the channel. If we ever weren’t… cautious enough, and people guessed, I don’t think anyone would believe I would take orders from _anyone._ Or if they did think you were the only one making the decisions for the Division, they’d think twice about speaking ill of _the Fury of Ronda._ ”


	13. In which Colonel Fitzwilliam makes the acquaintance of Miss Emma Woodhouse

Having given up their main stronghold near Madrid, the French plan of attack seemed to be to keep the English from advancing, without engaging them fully in battle, until the rainy season began. Several years of guerilla warfare by the Spanish had given them great experience with those tactics; if the French had their way, the Peninsular War would fall into a stalemate of sneak attacks and supply stealing. The Light Division, rather incensed that Wellington thought the Mixed Model Division the pride of his forces rather than  _ them,  _ refused to let the French dictate the terms of engagement. The Light Division daily begged to push the British lines closer to the Pyrenees, the mountain range which separated Spain and France.

“If they’re inclined to go I am inclined to let them,” said Wellington, as all the British officers were milling about Burgos in preparation for a fox hunt, “for they are excellent fellows, men and officers, and I can trust them to march. I cannot trust them in cities.” This was a dark reference to the sack of Badajos, some months previous, where His Grace had been forced to set Persicita on several of the worst offenders (she seized them and dropped them off the ramparts— not enough to kill or seriously injure but enough to startle), and then when that proved not to be enough of a deterrent, to execute the worst criminals in the city square. “The Light Bobs will lead the way but all other divisions will march in three separate columns after them, to confuse the enemy as to the field of battle I wish to drive them to— save for the Mixed Model Division.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam blinked. “Sir?” 

“Colonel Fitzwilliam, your division will remain in Madrid— as I know you can cover fifty miles in a day if we have need of you as backup, and because the Spanish have particularly asked for you. We cannot afford to lose Madrid, not in terms of position, or in terms of the goodwill of the Spanish.”

“If you are sure, sir,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, a little doubtfully. “We are in fighting fettle.”

“I am very sure,” said Wellington, with his quirk of a smile, “for the Spanish have as much faith in the Fury of Ronda as the French have fear of her.”

Several of the staff officers perpetually about Wellington grinned; Colonel Fitzwilliam glanced about and was relieved to see this was born as much of pride as amusement.

Still Colonel Fitzwilliam felt compelled to ask, “The Spanish know Captain Bennet did not murder an entire wedding party at Ronda… do they not?” 

“Yes,” said Wellington. “They are well aware that the wedding you and Captain Bennet attended was really a meeting of several guerilla leaders. Every Spanish officer and official to whom I have spoken speaks of deaths of all the wedding guests with a wink— it is well understood the guerillas went back to their mountain lairs, just as the bride only jumped into a gorge to land on her dragon.” 

“I really do not know what to make of such a report.”

“Make hay while the sun shines, as the saying goes,” said Wellington. He was in high spirits. The victory at Burgos had put him into a good mood, and he loved a hunt. “Which I certainly have done with Captain Bennet’s new Homeric epithet. I’ve had Moncey, Grant, and a number of other intelligence agents talk her up. Even if some French commander was foolish enough to order an attack against her, no regiment would ever obey. They’re all too terrified.” 

There was one complication to the spreading fame of the Fury of Ronda— though battalions would not dare attack her, a number of glory-hungry individuals  _ would. _

“I am accustomed to attacks of this nature,” said Lizzy, when they’d been attacked on patrol  _ again,  _ only a month after the Battle of Burgos _.  _ It had been a sneak attack by two French aviators on courier-weight beasts, and one had very nearly reached Lizzy, before Colonel Fitzwilliam shot the fellow where he stood. 

“But you must admit that more people are coming after you than before,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam.

She raised her eyebrows. “I cannot admit to it because that is a ridiculous statement to make. Really, Fitz, it’s an established mode of fighting, in the Aerial corps, going after a dragon’s captain. If we are get attacked on patrol, it would be  _ very odd _ if they did not go after the division captain.” 

“My dear Bennet,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, too exasperated to guard his tongue, and belatedly hoping his tone made the endearment just seem sarcastic. “What then do you call that unknown servant who fired at you when we went rabbiting?”

“A bad shot.”

“No one ever found him?”

“If I was a servant shot at a member of the hunting party instead of the rabbit, I would take care not to be found.”

“What about those ruffians who came at you when we were walking on the Prado two weeks ago?”

“Drunks.”

“And the men who knocked you over at the dragon harnessing at the Plaza de los Toros?”

“Also drunks, and ones very passionate about their bet on who would harness Luchador.” 

“And the fellow who burst into the mayor of Madrid’s dinner this week?”

“An assassin certainly, but I daresay he only went for me first because I was closest to the window he crawled through.”

“You don’t think he might have picked that window  _ because  _ it was the one nearest your seat?”

Lizzy looked heavenward. “I know vanity to be my besetting weakness, but I do not place myself at the center of the universe the way you do—“ and then they both colored and Lizzy said, hastily and querulously, “And I fought him back  _ out _ the window with the carving knife, did I not?”

“You did, but there is a pattern— wouldn’t you agree Lieutenant Lucas?”

“I would,” said Lieutenant Lucas. 

“I certainly see a pattern,” Wollstonecraft muttered. “But will my captain listen to  _ me _ ? Why on earth would she do that? She will not even sleep by me so I can protect her at night.”

“She needs to sleep on a bed for her shoulder,” Lieutenant Lucas said, reprovingly.

“She is right here,” Lizzy said, acidly. “And she is quite capable of defending herself _as she always has_.” 

When they got back to headquarters— they still had the same house in Madrid— Lizzy did, however, give into Colonel Fitzwilliam on one point. She agreed to sleep in his room at night, rather than her own. 

“Mind you, I shall have to go to bed on my own,” she said, before twining her arms about his neck. “Really Fitz, if you wanted me to share your bed every night, you had only to ask.”

“It was such work to get you to like your own feather bed,” Colonel Fitzwilliam joked, resting his hands on her hips. “I hadn’t the courage for so prolonged a battle, my dear.”

Lizzy pulled his face down to hers and kissed him, very sweetly and softly. “Fitz, my darling, after how much time we wasted pining for each other, do you think I would waste time arguing over a chance to spend  _ more time  _ with you? It isn’t like you haven’t a very comfortable feather bed of your own. In fact—“ pulling away a little, to eye his bed “—I think yours is nicer. Where did you get all those pillows?”

“I asked for them.” He turned and led her to the bed, glad of a chance to recover. Colonel Fitzwilliam felt far too affected by her answer. It moved him more than he could say, that even after three months of continual togetherness, at work with the regiment, and at play together most evenings, Lizzy still wished to spend more time with him. Was it possible to love her more than he did already? He tried for a joke, instead of falling into maudlin confessions that would only embarrass them both, at that point in the evening. (That sort of talk was best reserved for the middle or the immediate aftermath of more amorous pursuits.) “I am very glad to be able to introduce you to the wonderful world of sleeping with multiple pillows.”

“You’ll ruin me for camp beds,” she complained, but sunk into the pillows eagerly enough, and pulled him down with her.

Lizzy’s agreeing to come to him each night had its expected benefits about a month into this arrangement. It was perhaps ten-o-clock; Lizzy had slipped out of her room into his, and they were still kissing and unbuttoning, when they heard a muted thud. Lizzy was on top of him; she raised her head and turned to the door to her room. 

There came a muffled noise, then the creak of a floorboard by Lizzy’s bed that Lieutenant Lucas had insisted should  _ not  _ be fixed— and, it appeared, with good reason. Lizzy rolled off of Colonel Fitzwilliam, and out of bed. She grabbed his everyday sword from where he usually left it, leaning against his dressing table. 

“Should I alert the sentry?” he asked, as quietly as he could.

“How bad would it be if they found me in your room?” asked Lizzy. 

“It’s not ideal, but neither is your getting shot by an assassin.”

“We don’t know if it is,” said Lizzy, exasperated. “Look, I’ll duck down behind your dressing table, and if anyone sees me here, I will say I ran in through the door as soon as I heard the window opening.” 

This seemed as reasonable a solution as any; Colonel Fitzwilliam pulled on his dressing gown and very quietly opened the door to this room. The sentry on guard was one of his more intelligent corporals, and at Colonel Fitzwilliam’s soft throat clearing, looked around and came towards the door.

Suddenly, a shot rang out in Captain Bennet’s room.

The corporal blanched and ran at Captain Bennet’s door, shoulder first. 

Colonel Fitzwilliam glanced behind him to see Lizzy crouched by his dressing table, unharmed, though rather startled.

With a crack, the door gave way, and the corporal rushed in. Colonel Fitzwilliam belatedly followed.

The corporal was clutching his head and reeling backwards; Colonel Fitzwilliam shouted for reinforcements, and lunged at a black-clad figure trying to run towards the open window. By the time Lieutenant-Colonel Gowing, at the end of the hall, was heard shouting for his batman, Lizzy had flung open the door leading to Colonel Fitzwilliam’s room and joined in. Colonel Fitzwilliam and Lizzy had very little trouble subduing the assassin then, though admittedly it was because he’d been startled when Lizzy flung the door open, and she had taken advantage of this to bullrush the assassin and knock him over.

Lieutenant-Colonel Gowing, and Mrs. Gowing burst in the room to see the sentry gasping on the floor, and Colonel Fitzwilliam and Lizzy tying up the groaning assassin with the sash from Colonel Fitzwilliam’s dressing gown.

“Get… rope or cloth or something,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. 

“Here you are,” said Mrs. Gowing, offering the sash of her own dressing gown. 

Lieutenant Lucas, drawn by all the noise, came running in as well. “I heard gunshots. What on earth happened?”

“Oh, um,” said Lizzy, glancing at the fallen, now bound man between herself and Colonel Fitzwilliam. “This man came in through the window—” nodding at where it was open “—and tried to shoot me in my bed.”

Lieutenant Lucas helpfully lit some candles and then approached the bed, to see a scene of feathery carnage. “So that’s why you asked for all those pillows,” said Lieutenant Lucas. “Captain, are you sleeping on the floor again?”

“No,” said Lizzy, rather defensively. 

“The surgeon specifically told you to sleep on a mattress for the sake of your shoulder—”

“I  _ am  _ sleeping on a mattress!”

But her protestations were taken as proof that Lieutenant Lucas was right, and that Captain Bennet had been deliberately arranging the pillows in her bed to look like a person, and had been sleeping on the floor, as was her old habit. 

“I’m so used to camp beds I can’t sleep in one of those piles of dead geese either,” offered Lieutenant-Colonel Gowing politely. 

“I suppose it is a good tactical choice if there are assassins after you,” said Mrs. Gowing, worried, “but will that not aggravate your injury, Captain Bennet?”

“I think we have lost sight of the fact that this fellow just tried to shoot Captain Bennet,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Perhaps we might focus on that? Gowing, send for some men, I want this fellow guarded and questioned. Lieutenant Lucas, do I presume too much by asking you take charge of the interrogation?”

“Oh capitol,” said Lizzy, relieved. “Lieutenant Lucas will crack him, and will stop plaguing her commanding officer about her sleeping habits.” 

Once the redcoats took the man away, Mrs. Gowing volunteered to remain as Lizzy changed into her uniform, and Colonel Fitzwilliam made sure not to leave his room until he heard Lizzy leave as well. Lizzy was obviously annoyed by this, for, as she pointed out, she had not been in any real danger. 

“Perhaps you do not consider it danger since you are so often in battle,” said Mrs. Gowing, “but men are attempting to kill you when you are not engaged in battle, and that seems—” she paused “—I suppose  _ unsporting _ , but it does seem an odd way to characterize an assassination attempt.”

Mrs. Gowing also considered it unsporting in the extreme that the man they captured refused to speak, even after a week with both Lieutenant Lucas, and the more persuasive Spanish intelligence officers.  

“I really do wonder at their singling out Captain Bennet like this,” said Mrs. Gowing, as they were dancing at a ball at the mayor of Madrid’s later that week. The population of Madrid, sensing victory within reach, did their best to entertain the Mixed Model Division with weekly state balls and banquets, on top of the public balls at the Principe, the reopened theatres and concert halls, and the continual bull fights and dragon hatchings in the Plaza de los Toros. Indeed, if it hadn’t been for Colonel Fitzwilliam’s constant fear for Lizzy’s safety, and the rounds of drills and patrols, the past few months would have seemed like an extended holiday. 

“Do you really?” asked Colonel Fitzwilliam.

Mrs. Gowing considered it. “No. Upon reflection Captain Bennet’s reputation is enough to make it seem a challenge— I suppose it was only that….” she colored; the dance separated them. When they were once again reunited, they were at the top of the set, and had some time before they were required to move again. “I blush at the parallel, but do you know how virtuous women always seem to be the targets of rakes? Captain Bennet’s reputation is unblemished in war— that is, no man has ever beaten her, and she has won very decidedly against them— and I think certain men consider this a… challenge. Or an opportunity. For if a woman has such a record, it is only because the right man has not yet beaten her.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam had not framed it in these terms, in his head, but agreed, “I thank you for that particular insight. It wouldn’t have occurred to me. I was thinking that all these assassins were strongly motivated by revenge. They may have lost Madrid and all of western Spain, but killing the Fury of Ronda, their particular bogeyman, would do wonders for the general morale.”

“Yes,” mused Mrs. Gowing. “And I think it is easier to say they were tricked out of victory and to blame one woman, who has been cast as monstrous from the first because she is a dragon captain, and who they now call a Fury, than to accept that they lost because we beat them.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam had always known Mrs. Gowing to be a clever and insightful reader— they had often passed a long evening after dinner in the mess talking of novels— but had not known her to apply such skills to ordinary life. 

“You know,” said Mrs. Gowing, very seriously, “I was talking about this with Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Bass, but it has struck us, sir— and forgive us if the observation is too— well! That is— we have noticed that no assassins are coming after you. And we all agreed that if Captain Bennet had been a man, they would not be coming after her. The French would not have said she violated the rules of war and then used it as an excuse to violate the rules themselves.”

“I very much agree with you.” Colonel Fitzwilliam paused. “Everything’s so much harder for Captain Bennet than it ever is for me, or ever will be. It really isn’t fair.”

“It isn’t,” said Mrs. Gowing. She fidgeted with her gloves and said, uncertainly, uncomfortably, “I have been… noticing, more and more, just how much more difficult everything is for women, when it does not need to be. That is, it always bothered me, when I was a child and I was not allowed to do something and my brothers were, simply because they were my brothers, but I thought that was the way the world  _ was _ . It never occurred to me that the world was that way because men had made it so. I suppose I never realized it before, because until Captain Bennet, I had never seen a woman considered a man’s equal. And how much she has been able to accomplish because of that! Sometimes I cannot help but watch her climb up on Wollstonecraft and wonder, ‘what if I had been born the niece of a Longwing captain? Who could I be, and what could I have accomplished, if I’d been brought up to fly?’”

Colonel Fitzwilliam pressed her hand, as they rejoined the dance. “I cannot answer that, but I daresay Captain Bennet would be happy to take you on as an ensign.”

“I think my time has passed,” said Mrs. Gowing, a little sadly. “They start their officers at seven.”

“Fie, Kate! You are the reason the whole regiment wasn’t slaughtered at the Battle of the Peaks. I think even if you were not given the opportunity for as many heroics as the aviatrixes, you still find the moments—”

“It isn’t that,” said Mrs. Gowing. “I’m not angry  _ I  _ am not a heroine, it is— it is bigger than that— ow!”

A man in the crowd had careened into her, sending her flying. Colonel Fitzwilliam caught her, exclaiming, “I say! Sir, mind where you’re—”

But the man paid no attention. He went straight for the mayor of Madrid— ah no, Colonel Fitzwilliam realized, hastily pushing Mrs. Gowing upright. The man was going straight for Lizzy, who was the mayor’s partner for the set. 

“Oh no you don’t!” exclaimed Mrs. Gowing. She lunged through the dancers, seized the man by the back of the trousers and dug her heels in.

This did limited good.

Instead of stopping, the man merely slowed, dragging Mrs. Gowing along behind him as if he were a horse attached to a plow. But instead of seizing Lizzy, he instead grabbed her left hand and tried to yank her off balance. 

“ _Vive l’empreur_!” roared out this new assassin. 

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” exclaimed Lizzy. She punched the assassin in the nose with her right hand. The Toledo steel bracelet Colonel Fitzwilliam had given her dully gleamed in the light. 

This did not convince the man to release her, nor did Mrs. Gowing’s pulling, or the shouting of the other guests, or Colonel Fitzwilliam’s also seizing the assassin. Lizzy made an exasperated noise, and in a flash, had pulled the dagger out of her bracelet and plunged it into the assassin’s arm.

He did at last release her, and Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mrs. Gowing managed to wrestle him to the floor. The mayor’s personal guard struggled through the dancers and grabbed the assassin away from Colobnel Fitzwilliam and Mrs. Gowing. 

“Out of curiosity,” said Lizzy, in French, as she yanked her dagger out of his arm, and wiped it off with her handkerchief. “Just how many more of you am I to expect?”

“As many as it takes to rid the world of the Fury of Ronda!” he declared. 

“So I will be receiving you gentlemen until doomsday." Lizzy sighed. “This is beginning to grow tiresome.” 

 

***

 

The next day Excedium flew to Madrid, with both Wellington and Admiral Roland onboard. The scale and audacity of the attacks on Captain Bennet had to be addressed.

Wellington heard their report with steadily mounting eyebrows. “It occurs to me that Moncey and Grant may have followed their orders too well.”

“I am glad to have such a ferocious reputation,” protested Lizzy. 

“It has been one of the most useful weapons at our disposal,” said Wellington. “Madrid’s been safe as houses.”

Admiral Roland scowled. “And much good Lizzy’s reputation will do us when she’s been assassinated. The north of Spain’s in chaos, and Joseph Bonaparte’s on the run. The rainy season’s closing in on us. I say we establish winter quarters in Madrid, and give over the defense of the city to a Spanish division while we march everyone back here. Let the Mixed Model fly back to England before the thunderstorms ground Wollstonecraft. Parade ‘em about London and drum up support.”

“We will need to actually pay our officers and men if we are to push into France itself once the rainy season ends,” mused Wellington. “The Light Bobs been having their fun with King Joseph’s baggage train, but they’ve never yet managed to seize the treasure carts.” He considered this a minute and turned to Admiral Roland. “I agree. Let’s put the Mixed Model Division on parade duty in London again. Let’s set a route. Colonel Fitzwilliam, I expect you to begin on it at dawn tomorrow.” 

Lizzy scowled, not liking anyone to get the best of her, but Colonel Fitzwilliam was deeply relieved. That last assassin had gotten far too close. Indeed, as they were catching a few hours sleep together before the dawn march, Colonel Fitzwilliam kept waking up suddenly, convinced some assassin had finally succeeded, and had to hold Lizzy’s sleeping form tightly to him to convince himself that she was still breathing, and still well. 

The journey from Madrid was quite easy. The people of both Spain and Portugal were glad to see them, and continually welcomed them into their cities. There was almost always a parade of some sort, with relieved civilians flinging flowers, shawls, and themselves at the division as they entered the city. 

Colonel Fitzwilliam wasn’t sure if this was in thanks for their service, or a preemptive plea not to sack the cities, as both French and British troops had done. But the Mixed Model Division was a remarkably well behaved one. It had helped evacuate cities and destroy any supplies that could not be carried, but it had never sacked a city. Early on Wollstonecraft had made it clear that there would be no unmannerly looting in her division, which kept the aviators in check. She done so so loudly that when Colonel Fitzwilliam said that the first man found guilty of stealing, harming, or assaulting a civilian would not like the consequences, the redcoats had drawn certain inferences from that, and decided to behave themselves. 

Such enthusiastic welcomes— often accompanied by impromptu celebrations in the town square— pleased the dragons very much, amused all the soldiers, and kept Colonel Fitzwilliam and Lieutenant Lucas in a continual quake for Captain Bennet’s safety. Among so many strangers, it would be far too easy for an assassin to sneak close to her. But, as it was, Captain Bennet managed to very safely make it out of Spain, then to Portugal, and then to Lisbon, where there was a dragon transport waiting to take them to London. 

“And thank God for that,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam to Lizzy, as they were strolling about Lisbon, waiting for the ship to load on all its supply. “I really don’t know what I would have done if one of those assassins was actually successful. I don’t suppose I would ever have recovered from such a blow, any more than I could if they’d ripped my heart out like the Sapa Inca’s priests.” 

It came out more seriously than intended; Lizzy colored and looked elsewhere. “Such gallantry, Fitz!” 

He was unsure what tone to take and decided to fall back on their joking camaraderie. “Really, my dear, I’d fight Wollstonecraft for the honor of avenging you.”

“You’d lose.”

“You don’t think I could be much quicker in avenging your grievous and untimely demise than a several ton dragon?”

Lizzy seemed relieved at this shift in tone, back to playfulness. “No. Wollstonecraft could probably step on the assassin within a second or two of my being shot or stabbed or something. I’m afraid you’ll have to hold me as I bleed to death.” 

“I hope it doesn’t come to that, but if it does, I promise to help you pose like Jesus in the Pieta, so that some painter can win a prize at the Royal Academy for painting your untimely demise.”

“You’re a true friend, Fitz,” she replied, laughing. “Make sure they paint both my eyes, uplifted to heaven.”

“That was never in doubt, my dear.”

“After that eye patch I was wearing about London the last time I was there? I’m sure they would.”

They continued on in this spirit, which both relieved Colonel Fitzwilliam— as it meant Lizzy was not very affected by all that had happened — and worried him, as he could not help but feel that Lizzy did not wish to hear how much deeper and stronger his feelings for her had become. She  _ was  _ the center of his world, and he  _ would  _ never recover from losing her. And he could tell that his concern annoyed her. She had spent all her life aware that men would try and kill her if they got the chance, and training for just such an eventuality. Lizzy was very good at single combat, and rightly believed that no one could best her. No one had. Indeed, she seemed to think it a slight on her skill if anyone expressed concern that one of the assassins might someday get lucky. 

The lack of opportunity to be alone together exacerbated his anxieties. Surely, Colonel Fitzwilliam thought to himself, as he lay in his swinging hammock, on the transport ship back to London, Lizzy knew how deeply he loved her. She had been so moved when he told her he loved her in Ronda. She was only annoyed at his concern because she found the assassins annoying… surely?

Or perhaps she was tired of him, or had realized she had more important concerns than the love of some unhandsome infantry colonel, or—

Colonel Fitzwilliam gave up on sleep and lit his lamp. He had a new letter from Darcy he had not yet read.

This was a perfect distraction, for Darcy had opened with remarkable news: Miss Emma Woodhouse of Hartfield had agreed to marry him. 

“Oh well done,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, grinning. “It’s only been three months since Marjorie thought you would be.”

‘ _ I must confess, _ ’ Darcy wrote, ‘ _ the engagement did not begin fortuitously. I had not planned to propose when I did, but Miss Woodhouse and I were both at a summer house party and leaving the next day. Miss Woodhouse was greatly astonished at my proposal. I at first attributed this to the uncharacteristic impetuosity of my offer, but, as it turned out, she was astonished that I loved her. She had no idea. In fact, she had been trying to arrange a match between me and her friend Miss Anne Elliot. I had no idea.  _

_ ' am not sure who was the more mortified— I, for utterly failing to have made my interest clear, or Miss Woodhouse for being so bad a matchmaker. (Miss Woodhouse is ordinarily very good at it— she claims responsibility for her sister marrying Mr. John Knightley, and her governess marrying a neighbor, a Mr. Weston, as well as innumerable matches among her tenants.) I think I may safely claim the greater share, for I also realized that all Miss Woodhouse’s invitations and encouragements had been in order to put her friend in my path, rather than out of her own interest. I could not believe I had so entirely misjudged a person— though in this, I can only fault myself. Miss Woodhouse will do anything for her friends, indeed she will overdo herself in quest of their happiness.  _

_ 'We parted very awkwardly.  _

_ 'I had planned on avoiding her forever, but Miss Woodhouse, her brother-in-law and her sister were guest at your father’s for a shooting party this October. She was relieved to report that Miss Elliot had no tender feelings towards me, which was her chief objection to my addresses— or at least, it was once she had thought on them— and that if I might make my addresses in a slightly more obvious manner, so that we might see if we should suit, she would be able to give me an answer. (I left before she had answered me this past summer.) I apologized for thinking that my stating my interest was enough— how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased! By Emma I have been properly humbled— and she confessed to feeling very much the same. She was embarrassed by her own blindness. _

_ 'I am far more lucky than I deserve, for by the end of the shooting party, Miss Woodhouse had an answer for me. Miss Woodhouse had never been indifferent to me— indeed, even when she was astonished by the idea of my being in love with her, she called herself my friend and declared there was no man whose judgement she respected more than my own— and now that we better knew ourselves, we could better see how well we suited. I write to you as the happiest of men, for Miss Woodhouse returns my affections and has agreed to be my wife. We will marry this December, so perhaps you will be in winter quarters then and might attend?'  _

He would probably outpace any letter he sent, so Colonel Fitzwilliam did not reply— but took the first opportunity of calling on Darcy to wish him joy in person. 

Colonel Fitzwilliam was shown in the music room at Darcy House, to see Georgiana engaged in playing duets with an unknown young woman. Darcy was on a sofa, smiling, and petting Delicium, whose head rested on his knee. 

“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” intoned the butler.

Georgiana leapt up from the piano, face alight. “Richard! You are home! Oh we had not expected you at all! When did you get home? Are you home for long? Did you get leave for Fitzwilliam’s wedding? Did you know Fitzwilliam is to be married?” She flung herself into his arms.

Colonel Fitzwilliam hugged her and laughed. “No, I’m home on parade duty. It’s the rainy season in Spain. We cannot campaign— the men cannot march and the dragons cannot fly. I got in late last night and will probably stay in England until February or March— the start of campaign season. I  _ had  _ heard—”

Georgiana grew suddenly self-conscious and shrank back, looking consciously at the handsome, hazel-eyed woman at the piano. “Um, er— I… should, um—”

Darcy came up and clasped Colonel Fitzwilliam’s shoulder. “It is very good to see you again. It has been too long.”

“Far too long,” agreed Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Oh— hello there!”

Georgiana’s dragon had also come to greet him and softly headbutted him in the side. 

“You have grown so big,” Colonel Fitzwilliam exclaimed. 

“I am nearly full grown,” Delicium said, proudly. “I do not fit through all the doors in the house anymore.”

Darcy had taken the opportunity to go back to the piano and offer a hand to the lady there. “Colonel Fitzwilliam,” said Darcy, looking very pleased as he led her over, “I have the honor of introducing you to my fiancee, Miss Emma Woodhouse.” 

Colonel Fitzwilliam bowed deeply. “A very great pleasure! Darcy wrote to me often about you.”

“Did he?” Miss Woodhouse said, looking pleased. “I had not known that. I think you are  _ the  _ Colonel Fitzwilliam, of the Ronda action?”

“Yes,” he said, a little embarrassed. “Though I am sure the newspapers exaggerated it— and I know the equestrian display certainly did.” 

Georgiana started. “Oh! I ought to have rung for tea. I forgot.”

“No, no, you are quite fine,” Miss Woodhouse smilingly reassured her. “For it would have been impolite to do so while we were making introductions. You are doing perfectly well, Georgiana.”

Georgiana brightened at this, and they all settled down to tea. Colonel Fitzwilliam quite liked Miss Woodhouse. She was handsome and clever, well able to keep pace with Darcy, and able to set Georgiana immediately to rights when Georgiana got into a tizzy or a fit of shyness. Colonel Fitzwilliam was very glad of this, and very happy to hear he had returned home in time for the wedding. It would be held in two weeks.

Colonel Fitzwilliam was, however, a little concerned when he noticed Miss Woodhouse did not seem to have given up her hobby of matchmaking. As he was petting Delicium and listening to half-an-ear to Georgiana’s descriptions of all the flights they had undertaken together, he distinctly heard Miss Woodhouse say to Darcy, “Your cousin is such a charming man! I find it hard to believe he is not yet married.”

“I think his duties kept him from forming any serious attachment,” said Darcy. “He has been kept continually busy since the French invasion.”

“Yes, but he is here in London on a nice long leave,” said Miss Woodhouse. “Hm. I wonder….” 

Colonel Fitzwilliam felt a stir of foreboding. 


End file.
